


Be Prepared

by VVSIGNOFTHECROSS



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-12 11:25:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 64
Words: 67,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7101265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VVSIGNOFTHECROSS/pseuds/VVSIGNOFTHECROSS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Be Prepared For the Coup of a Lifetime</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Be Prepared

**11 th Month of 283 A.C. King’s Landing**

**King Aerys II Targaryen**

The war had been raging for a year, the result of the foolish decisions he had made, he could not remember what had happened, his mind had been plagued with darkness, a darkness that had been consuming him, tearing him in half, trying desperately to try and prevent him from seeing sense. It had nagged at him, tearing him in two, until there was nothing left of him. Somehow he had come back, back from the darkness, and the cover of insanity, but it seemed as though it was too late. There were things he could not remember, things that he was not sure, he wanted to remember, and still, they moved forward, doing all that could be done to try and right the wrongs. Aerys was not sure if it could be done or not.

“What is it?” he asks, looking at Qarlton Chelstead, the Hand of the King, finding himself wondering why he named the man Hand of the King, the man is distinctly lacking in common sense.

The man shifts from one foot to another, his voice stuttering as he speaks. “Word has come from the Trident Your Grace.”

Aerys feels his attention come into focus then, the Trident, he had sent the boy to the Trident, his son. “And?” he asks, impatience growing within him.

Chelstead shakes slightly as he thinks of the best way to respond, eventually he speaks. “The rebels won Your Grace. Prince Rhaegar is dead, slain by Robert Baratheon.”

Aerys feels as if a hammer has hit him, he is not sure how to feel. His firstborn son is dead, slain by Steffon’s son, gone, just like that, gone, dead. “What of the Kingsguard, where were they when my son needed them?”

Once more Chelstead shifts uncomfortably, and then he says. “Ser Gerold Hightower died trying to reach the Prince. Ser Lewyn Martell was slain by Corbray.”

“And Ser Barristan? What happened to the Bold?” Aerys asks, feeling the desperation in him grow.

“He was badly wounded Your Grace; it seems that he has bent the knee to Robert Baratheon.” Chelstead responds.

Aerys feels another blow come then. Barristan the Bold turning traitor? No that cannot be right, surely Chelstead is mistaken. He looks at the man, but sees nothing but fear and grief on the man’s face, somewhere, in some deep dark corner of his mind, the madness wants to come rearing back, to sneer and roar. He fights it down, and says. “I see.” A pause, and then he says. “You may leave.” Chelstead bows and hurries out of the throne room, leaving Aerys to sit atop the throne and ponder. His firstborn son is dead, he feels a mixture of grief and anger, his son was always a dreamer, his actions with the Stark girl prove that, his son was not ready for the crown he so obviously coveted, Tywin had corrupted his son, turned him against him. Aerys stands, and calls out. “Ser Jonothor.”

The knight, a loyal man turns. “Yes Your Grace?” the man asks.

“Get my wife.” Aerys commands. The man nods and walks off, returning a few moments with Rhaella, Aerys sister and his wife, his companion throughout all of this. He looks at her sadness engulfing him once more, whatever else Rhaegar was, he was their son. He walks down the steps of the throne, and sees Rhaella flinch slightly, he feels anger grow inside of him, anger at the madness that had taken so much of his life. “Rhaegar is dead.” he says as he comes to stand before her.

Rhaella looks as if she wants to deny it, to call him a liar, but she must see something in his face for she nods and then cries. He embraces her and whispers soothing words into her hair, his heart breaking again and again. He did not care for Rhaegar, at least he thinks he did not, not when Rhaegar was plotting, but he remembers the boy his son used to be, the boy who would come running to him to ask for help. That boy is dead. Aerys pulls back from his wife, and wipes a tear from her face. His wife asks. “What happens next?”

Aerys takes a deep breath, the Dornish did not do anything, and as much as he might have ambivalent feelings for Elia and her children, he does not think they can rally the loyalists. “You and Viserys shall leave for Dragonstone. Ser Jonothor shall go with you.”

“What about you?” Rhaella asks, and it must be a sign of how grief stricken she is that she does not immediately demand that Elia and the children go with her.

“I will remain here. I am the King; I cannot leave now.” Aerys responds.

The question comes then. “What about Elia and the children? They should come with us. Aegon is your heir now.”

Aerys shakes his head. “No, they must remain here. Elia cannot travel, I know she is too frail to leave, and I shall not separate the children from their mother. Viserys is my heir from now on.”

He thinks Rhaella will protest this, but instead she merely nods. “Very well.” He kisses the top of her head, and then watches her leave, to prepare.

He summons the council a few moments later, and formally announce. “Viserys is my heir, he is Prince of Dragonstone.” He signs a document with the announcement, and then gives it to Ser Jonothor, telling the man that he is now going to be guarding the future King. Ser Jaime remains in the Red Keep. The next few hours are a blur, Aerys does not remember much of it, the grief and the rage filling every single fibre of his being. Eventually though he finds his way to bed, and Rhaella is there, and they make love. As night changes into day, he looks at her sleeping form and feels a heaviness to his being, he knows he will not live to see his son or his wife, or the child they have made there and then.

The morning comes, his wife and son are dressed in their finery, Ser Jonothor Darry is there, alongside some thirty servants and guards. He kneels before his son and says. “You are the Targaryen now Viserys. It is your duty to protect your mother. Do you understand me?”

His son looks back at him and nods. “I do father. I will protect mother.”

He kisses the top of his son’s head and says. “Good, now go, and be the man I know you can be.”

He nods to Rhaella unable to say goodbye to her, he watches them board the ship, and then stands there until the ship departs from his vision. Eventually, he returns to the Red Keep, calling to Ser Jaime. “Now come with me Ser, I have something to tell you.” The darkness comes back, and he knows that there might be something more to come.


	2. A Young Lion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I See Fire.

**12 th Month of 283 A.C. King’s Landing**

**Ser Jaime Lannister**

His sword felt like a heavy weight in his hands, the blood of the new hand was still dripping off of it. Rossart, a pyromancer, he was not sure what had gotten into the King, the man had seemed as if he had been improving, but then he had changed. Chelstead had been killed by one of the pyromancers and the King had just sat on the throne and watched it all unfold. It was a terrifying thought, and something that Jaime was not sure he wanted to think about again. There was no path out of the darkness if he went down that way and so he tried to ignore it, but as he walked back to the throne room, he could not help but wonder if the time of the dragons was over.

He had changed out of the Targaryen Kingsguard armour, a new suit of golden scales, that his father had given him long ago, was what he wore now as he entered the throne room. The King was sat on the throne, and Jaime was not sure what to think as he looked at the man, the man who had looked at him with such hatred one moment, and then such pride the next. It was confusing for him, and it was something he was trying to figure out. The man looks at him then and says. “Have you come to do what your father does not have the guts to do then?”

Jaime cringes slightly, the Sack of King’s Landing had been what had begun all of this, the rampaging hell storm had come. “I have come to tell you that Rossart is dead Your Grace.”

The King laughs, a maniacal sound. “Good, that man was always getting on my nerves. So tell me Ser Jaime, how does it feel to have killed your first man?”

Jaime is not sure if the King is being serious, or whether there is something else there. He takes a moment to consider the question, before he replies. “I…I am not sure Your Grace. Rossart needed to die, but it seems strange. Why did you name him Hand of the King, if you were simply going to have him killed?”

The King laughs once more, and Jaime becomes aware of the fact that his sword is still in his hands. “I named him Hand, because the feeling of righteousness is there. Rossart is the only one who knows how to harness the power of the flame. To make the world come alight with fire. The way the dragons did.”

A sense of horror envelops Jaime then. “But…but the wildfire would destroy all of King’s Landing, and everyone in it. Why would you do such a thing?”

The King stares at him, and Jaime gets the feeling that the man before him, is not the King, but rather someone else. “Because I am the King. If I am to lose my throne, then there will not be a throne for Robert to sit on. There will not be a city for him to rule from. Let him be King over ash and bone.”

Jaime swallows nervously, feeling the horror of such a thing engulf him. “But what of Princess Elia and her children?” he asks.

The King snorts. “They are not part of the royal family. Dornish half breeds, nothing more. They are the price that the Martells must pay for their treachery.”

That confuses Jaime. “Treachery? What treachery do you speak of Your Grace?”

“They took too long to answer the summons. The Martells have always demanded more than they have given. And the time has come for them to answer for that.” The King responds.

“Your Grace please, whatever crimes the Prince of Dorne has committed, his sister and her children do not deserve such a fate. Allow me to save them.” Jaime pleads.

“No!” the King snarls. “You shall remain here, Tywin’s golden son, here to remain by all time.” Jaime stands there for a long moment shocked and uncertain of what to do. The King looks at him once more, his eyes seemingly normal. “Please Jaime, help me!”

Jaime looks at the King and asks. “How? How might I help you?”

“Do it. Do it now. Do what I told you!” King snarls standing up, staggering down the steps.

Jaime tenses, sensing what the King wants him to do. As the King comes to stand before him, he raises his sword. “Are you sure?” he asks, fear lurching through him.

“Do it now!” the King roars.

Jaime thrusts his sword through the King’s stomach, and as the King gasps and moans, he feels something wet come down his cheek, a tear. “Your armour….” the King gasps. “It….it is different.”

As more tears begin falling down his cheek, he whispers. “I am sorry Your Grace.” He pulls his sword out of the King, and watches as the man falls to the floor, he stands there for a long, long moment, listening to the roar of the castle and the city, as death comes to all around him. He thinks that perhaps he should go and look for the princess and her children, but for some reason he cannot move from where he stands. He seems unable to move, unable to breathe. He stands there, and then he looks up at the throne, the thing that drove the King mad, and he looks at his armour, golden and soiled, he looks to where he had shed his old armour, in a corner. He drops his sword onto the ground, and moves to where the armour rests, silver, dark silver, with the three headed dragon of the Targaryens on it, he takes a torch from the wall and throws it onto the armour. “Forgive me.” He whispers as he watches the armour burn and break, he does not know how long he stands there, but when he comes to, he is sat on the throne and finds Eddard Stark looking at him, something akin to disgust on his face, Jaime looks at him, then at Aerys, the King, the last King, and merely says. “Fear not Stark, I was merely keeping the throne warm for our friend Robert.” As he says those words, he feels a part of him being destroyed, and he hates himself for that. _Forgive me, I have failed._


	3. Snake Tower

**2 nd Month of 284 A.C. Tower of Joy**

**Princess Lyanna Targaryen nee Stark**

Rhaegar was dead, he had died at the Trident and with him had died Ser Gerold Hightower, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Aerys Targaryen was dead, slain by one of his own Kingsguard, a thought that brought a smile to Lyanna’s face, Aerys had been mad, he had killed her father and brother. When she had learned of their deaths she had raged, and raged, demanded to be allowed to go home, but Rhaegar had refused, had said she could not leave until she had given him a child. She had been in love with Rhaegar, but then she had realised why he had taken her, and she had been deeply angered, she had felt betrayed, had felt like a child, and that was what she was a child, nothing more. She had given birth to Rhaegar’s child, but it had been a boy, not the girl that Rhaegar had wanted, for a time Lyanna had been relieved, but now, now she was not sure how to feel. Robert was King, and now her child was a threat to him.

She held her child in her arms as she listened to Arthur and Oswell discuss what needed to be done. “We cannot stay here now. The usurper will send men to come looking for us, and I am not sure that we can afford to trust on your family’s support or anything from Sunspear Arthur. I know you do not want to admit it, but it must be done.” Oswell says.

Lyanna looks at Oswell, sees the grief on his face, whether that is more to do with the death of Rhaegar or something else, she is not sure, and she is not sure she truly cares. She listens intently as Arthur responds. “I think the fact that my brother has provided for us during the course of our time here, should suggest he would aid us if he felt it was prudent.”

Lyanna sees Oswell shake his head. “That was when Rhaegar was alive, and to refuse him, was to refuse the crown prince. Rhaegar is dead now, Aerys is dead, Elia and her children are dead. The Baratheons rule in King’s Landing now, and we both know how Doran will react to this.” at this Oswell gestures at her and her son.

“I have a name you know Oswell.” Lyanna responds, hating how petulant her voice sounds. “And if Ned is the one leading the army down to Storm’s End, he will come looking for me. I am sure my brother can be reasoned with.”

She expects Arthur to agree with her, after all she had seen him and Ned getting along reasonably well at Harrenhal, and therefore is surprised when she hears him say. “I am afraid I must disagree with you here princess. Your brother, whilst he might be your brother, is also the chief ally of the usurper and therefore must serve him as commanded. Furthermore, your son is a threat to the usurper, and I do not want to see what happens when your brother is confronted with that.”

“Ned would never hurt me or my son!” Lyanna protests.

“Do you really know that princess? You, yourself have told us before, how little you really know of your brother. How do you know he would not harm you or your child, if he believed you to be a threat to his King?” Oswell asks.

Lyanna goes to protest, but then realises that she does not have a suitable argument to contradict what Oswell has said, so instead she asks. “What do you suggest we do then?”

There is a moment of silence and then Arthur speaks. “We must burn the tower and burn any trace of our being here. We must make it seem as if we are dead.”

Lyanna looks at the man surprised. “How will we do that?”

Arthur looks at the three figures standing near the tower. “They have volunteered for this. They lost people during the war, and as such feel as though they do not have much left to live for.” There is something bitter in the words Arthur speaks, suggesting that he still does not quite agree with Lyanna being there at all, something that causes something akin to resentment to boil inside of her.

“So they will do what?” Lyanna asks. “Stay in the tower whilst we set fire to it?” the mere thought of it horrifies her. “And then what? Where do we go from there?”

She sees Oswell and Arthur exchange a look and then hears Arthur speak. “Prince Rhaegar kept a ship stationed near Vulture’s Roost, in case something happened to him. We shall take that ship, and travel past the Wyl, and onto Braavos. I think Queen Rhaella will be there.”

Lyanna looks at the man, not really sure what to say, not really approving of what they are suggesting, but not really seeing any other way to protect her son, and so reluctantly she nods her head in agreement. Sometime later, she stands a fair distance away looking at the smoking tower, hearing the screams of the people trapped inside, her son pressed close against her, she closes her eyes, and prays to the Old Gods, hoping that they might give her some forgiveness. She prays that Ned will find it in himself to forgive her for this, for Brandon and father, and then she looks away from the burning tower, and mounts her horse, her son strapped to her chest. She spurs her horse onward, flanked by Ser Arthur and Ser Oswell, and they ride in silence for a long time, till they arrive some days later at Vulture’s Roost, a burned ruin, board the ship and leave Westeros, for a future unknown. She cries herself to sleep that night, and for the night after that as well, unsure of what is to come, and not really knowing if that is a good thing or not. All she knows is that she has brought this on herself.


	4. Queen on Fire

**8 th Month of 284 A.C. Dragonstone**

**Queen Dowager Rhaella Targaryen**

Her grief was a violent thing. Word had come from King’s Landing of her husband’s death, of the deaths of Elia and her children, and she had wept. She had wept and wept, and wondered how they had come to this. How it had come to her family being reduced to three members, herself, Viserys who was now the King in every way that mattered, and her new born child whom she had named Daenerys, for the first Daenerys and the hope she had brought. The only thing that she could come back to was Rhaegar, and the foolish mistakes her firstborn son had made. It pained her to admit it, but perhaps Rhaegar had gotten far too lost inside his prophecies and his books, perhaps he had not been the hope they had thought him. Aerys, Aerys had been mad she knew that, but he had come back to her, for a time at least, he had returned, had been the brother she had loved fiercely during their youth for a time, and now he was gone. Gods, her grief was something harsh.

And now, having given birth to a girl, a girl who perhaps might’ve spared them all this trouble had she been born before, long before, Rhaella knows that she won’t be able to move from the bed. She can tell in the way the maester speaks with the Darrys, and how they look at her nervously. Keeping her voice soft, so as not to disturb her daughter she asks. “How bad is it?”

Maester Gelman, the man who has served as maester of Dragonstone since she was a little girl takes a breath and then responds. “You have lost too much blood Your Grace, I do not think you will be able to move from the bed without doing serious harm to yourself.”

Rhaella nods, accepting the news with some bitterness, she had suspected that that might be the case, still hearing it makes it real, and she’s not sure how to feel about that. “I see.” Is all she says, for she knows that there is not much more to say on that point. She takes a deep breath and then looks toward Ser Jonothor, the Kingsguard knight who had stood by her family’s side through almost everything. “What is the weather like outside?” she cannot hear anything anymore.

“There are a lot of storms outside Your Grace. Most of the fleet has been destroyed.” Ser Jonothor replies sounding quite down cast.

Rhaella wants to tell the man that she is not the Queen anymore, there is no throne or kingdom for her to be Queen of, the Seven Kingdoms have turned their cloaks on the family that gave them unity. She would laugh, but her sides are hurting. She looks down at her daughter and then says. “We all know I am not leaving Dragonstone. Ser Jonothor, Ser Willam.” The two men come closer to her bed. “I want you to promise me that you will protect my children, protect my children and raise them. Tell them of what has happened here, all of it, the truth. No lies. Just the truth. And remind them of who they are.”

She sees the looks that the brothers exchange, but their voices are filled with conviction when they reply. “We will Your Grace.”

Rhaella nods and then says. “Go to Braavos, to the manor that we have there. Use it for a time, see if Arthur and Oswell find you. If they do, plan and prepare. And remember, my son is the rightful King.”

She sees both men lower their head in acknowledgement. “Of course Your Grace.”

Rhaella takes a deep breath, feeling the pain beginning to overwhelm her, then she says. “Bring my son here.” Ser Jonothor nods and hurries off to find her son, Rhaella steels herself for what is to come, knowing that this, this will be the hardest part of what is to come. Eventually Ser Jonothor returns with Viserys, her son, her only surviving son, who looks every inch like her father had done. Her son comes to her side at once, looking at wonder once more at his little sister. Rhaella takes a shaky breath then speaks. “Viserys,” her son looks at her, violet eyes looking into violet eyes. “Sweetling, you and your sister Daenerys are going to be going on an adventure now.”

“We are mother?” Viserys asks, wonder in his voice.

“Yes sweetling. You’re going to be travelling with Ser Jonothor and Ser Willam to Braavos. You know about Braavos do you not my love?” she asks.

“Yes mama.” Viserys responds, sounding like the child he truly is in that moment.

“Good.” she winces slightly as a roll of pain covers her then. “I need you to promise me something Viserys.”

“Anything mama.” Her son replies.

“I want you to promise me that you will protect your sister. She is just a babe, and she needs her big brother to protect her and to look after her. Promise me you will do that Viserys.” Rhaella says.

“I will mama, of course I will.” Viserys says, “I’ll protect you as well mama.”

Rhaella smiles sadly at her son. “I know you will. I love you Viserys, I love you and your sister both so very much, don’t ever forget that.”

She kisses the top of her sons’ head then, before handing over her daughter to the wetnurse, feeling a pang of loss almost as soon as her daughter is out of her arms. She presses Viserys into a hug, and whispers into his hair. “Be strong my little dragon. And remember what I told you.”

“I am a dragon and we fear no one. Are you not coming with us Mama?” Viserys responds into her chest.

Rhaella feels her heart lurch at that. “I will be along soon my love. But you must go first, go with Ser Jonothor and Ser Willam now.” She pulls back and sees her son looking at her with concern, she smiles and says. “I will be along soon. Go along Viserys.”

Her son nods, and hugs her once more very quickly. “I love you Mama.” Her son says, before he turns and walks out of the room.

Rhaella nods to the two Darrys and then settles back down against the pillows, watching her son and daughter disappearing from view, onto a safer future hopefully. She does not know how long she sits there on the bed, leaning against the headboard, but eventually, Delena, one of her Lady’s in Waiting comes to her and says. “The Baratheons are here Your Grace.”

Rhaella nods, and takes a dagger from her bedside, she looks at it and says. “You will not take me alive Robert Baratheon. And your family shall fall soon enough.” With that the dagger goes in and she says goodbye to the world.


	5. Knight

**1 st Month of 285 A.C. Braavos**

**Ser Jonothor Darry**

King’s Landing was nothing but a distant dream now, the sack had seen the King and his grandchildren die, a false King now sat the throne. Queen Rhaella had died as well, the after effects of giving birth to Princess Daenerys, and she had entrusted Jonothor and his brother with the task of looking after and raising her children. Jonothor was a knight of the Kingsguard, but he was also a Darry, and so he was honoured by the task given to him, and he was determined to fulfil it to the best of his abilities. King Viserys was a good lad, thoughtful and prone to bursts of activity, in a way he reminded Jonothor of what King Aerys had been like as a child, before Tywin Lannister had showed up, and he was determined to ensure that Viserys never ended up like that. Things had been slightly complicated though, with the arrival of Arthur and Oswell, and the Stark girl and her son. According to Arthur, Prince Rhaegar had married the girl, and as such the boy she held in her arms almost constantly was Rhaegar’s heir.

Still Jonothor had seen the will the King had signed, had sworn vow and he would not break it. He looks at Arthur and says as much. “King Aerys named Prince Viserys as his heir before his death, and also stated that no child of Prince Rhaegar’s would ever inherit the throne before Viserys.”

“King Aerys was a mad man, who did not have the authority to do that.” Arthur responds indignantly.

Jonothor bristles at that. “He was no madder than Prince Rhaegar was. And yet you were more than willing to side with the son, instead the father. So tell me what is this that makes you think that boy would have more of a chance to take the throne than the rightful King?”

Arthur looks as if he wishes to snap at him, but instead he says. “Because the Prince is the only surviving legitimate son of Prince Rhaegar who was King Aerys firstborn son. The laws of succession state that the prince is the rightful King of Westeros, not Prince Viserys.”

Jonothor snorts at that. “Do you truly believe that? Come now Arthur, be reasonable, King Aerys is or rather was the King, his word is law. If he named a new heir, then that person is the rightful heir and ruler of Westeros.”

“I cannot believe this.” Arthur exclaims. “You would be willing to set aside the right of the firstborn son for the whim of a mad man? Why? Why would you do that?”

“Because the boy you wish to put on the throne is not only the relation of a man who betrayed the rightful King, he is also non-existent to the people who would rally to the dragon banner.” Jonothor points out. “Everyone believes you, Oswell and Princess Lyanna died at the Tower of Joy, why then would they think that this child is anything more than a mere phantom. He does not even look like his father.”

“He is Rhaegar’s son. Prince Viserys is Aerys son, there is a taint to that name.” Arthur says.

“There is a taint to Rhaegar’s name as well Arthur, or have you forgotten the fact that he did abscond with a woman who was already betrothed to the man who now sits on the throne. Those are not the actions of a man who would be considered sane.” Jonothor points out.

He sees Arthur tense then, but before the man can speak, Oswell speaks. “Jonothor is right Arthur, we both know it.”

Arthur looks as if he has been betrayed. “What do you mean?”

“We are believed to have died, as is Princess Lyanna, no one knows of the child that she bore for Prince Rhaegar. Prince Viserys is the one who is the face of the Targaryens now, furthermore, he is the one the loyalists in Westeros will rally behind. He is the King.” Oswell responds.

Arthur goes to protest, but before he can, Princess Lyanna speaks. “I do not want my son being put forward for the throne.” Jonothor looks at the girl surprised, he does not know the girl well, but judging by her actions, he would’ve thought that was most definitely something she wanted.

“But why Princess?” Arthur asks.

“Because as Ser Jonothor and Ser Oswell have pointed out, we are believed dead. It is one thing for us to come back from the dead, it is quite another for us to come back from the dead, claiming to have Rhaegar’s son with us. And besides, I do not want a target on my son’s back. I want him to grow up with a normal, or as normal as such a thing can be, life. I do not want him growing up under this sort of strain.” Princess Lyanna responds.

Jonothor looks at the girl, wondering what Prince Rhaegar saw in her, whether it was purely filled by his obsession with that dangerous prophecy, or whether there was actually anything more to it. She does not seem like Queenly material, not like Princess Elia was, she just seems like a girl trying to be a woman. Still, if it gets Arthur to see sense, he will not begrudge it. Eventually, the silence is broken when Arthur speaks. “Very well then, if that is what you wish Princess.”

“It is Arthur.” The princess responds.

Arthur nods his head in acknowledgement, and Jonothor speaks. “Good, now that that is out of the way, I think it is time we made it official.” With that King Viserys walks into the room, wearing his house colours of red and black, he stands there with the crown of King Jaehaerys atop his head, the crown is too big for him just now, but Jonothor thinks it will suit him soon. Arthur and Oswell get down on bended knee and recognise him as their rightful King, and if there is a slight twitch to Arthur’s face as he says the oath, well Jonothor will be keeping a close eye on the man for a time.


	6. Sword of The Morning

****

**6 th Month of 285 A.C. Braavos**

**Ser Arthur Dayne**

Grief hung over him like a shadow most days, Ashara was dead, Rhaegar was dead, his mother and father were dead, and his brother and sister thought him dead. He spent most of his time looking after Rhaegar’s son and sister, unable to truly bring himself to look after the King, for there was a part of him that felt that Rhaegar’s son should be King, regardless of the sense that Jonothor spoke. Still, he got on with it, and he did what needed to be done, even if he did not quite agree with some of what had happened. Word was coming from Westeros, talk of the usurper exiling houses that remained fervent in their loyalty to the dragons, to the true rulers of Westeros, and that filled him with some level of pleasure, almost as much as knowing that Dorne was still there, considering their options. That was what the conversation they were currently having was about.

Word had come that though Prince Doran had made peace with the usurper, he still wanted revenge for Elia and her children, and as such was sending Prince Oberyn to discuss an alliance. Of course, that meant that the King’s little council, which was mainly himself, Oswell, Ser Jonothor and Ser Willam, were left to discuss the matter. Arthur, being from Dorne, spoke first. “I think that this can only be a good thing. We do not have any solid allies in Westeros at the moment, and if Prince Doran is sending his brother, that must mean he is being quite serious about this.”

“I agree with Arthur.” Oswell says, Arthur looks at his fellow sworn brother surprised, it is rare for them to agree on much these days. “I think that if Prince Oberyn is coming, then we can expect something to happen soon enough, and that Dorne will be involved.”

He expects that to be the end of the conversation, but of course it is not. Ser Jonothor, as the unofficial Lord Commander of King Viserys-gods that feels strange- Kingsguard, has the final say, and is allowed to give his opinion, and so he does. “I disagree. I think that Prince Doran wants something from this negotiation. Do not forget that he did not summon his men to arms until King Aerys reminded him that he had Princess Elia and her children under his control. Such a man, who is willing to allow war to pass him by, must not be trusted.”

Arthur feels anger flash through him. “Why? Prince Doran would’ve thought that Princess Elia and her children would’ve remained on Dragonstone safe and sound. Rhaegar was the one who had caused the damage.” As much as it pains him to admit that, he knows his friend did wrong.

Arthur sees Jonothor tense at that. The man’s words are clipped and to the point. “He did not answer the call until he was reminded of that fact. That is something that I think needs to be taken into consideration. Furthermore, it should be obvious that he is only sending his brother here to gain revenge for the death of Princess Elia and her children, nothing more.”

“And is there anything wrong with that?” Arthur exclaims. “The Targaryens did much to harm Dorne and the Martells during the rebellion, I think we should be thankful that he is sending someone to get our take on things, instead of ignoring us.”

Ser Willam speaks then, looking at his brother and then at Arthur. “I think we need to take both things into consideration. Prince Doran clearly wants something, and will ask through his brother for this, whatever it is. We must take that into account, we also need to take into account what Prince Doran did during the War of the Usurper. Furthermore, we must make sure that whatever agreement is reached, is good for the King and for the royal family.”

“I am sure that whatever Prince Doran sends his brother to talk about, it will take those things into consideration.” Arthur says. “Doran is a reasonable man.”

“Whilst Prince Oberyn is known for being a hot head. Whatever Prince Doran has told his brother to present to us, to the King, you can be sure Prince Oberyn will put his own spin on things.” Ser Jonothor says. The man pauses for a moment and then continues. “Do not be surprised if the man looks upon you two with disfavour.” The man is looking at Arthur and Oswell, though Arthur knows the man is looking at him more than anyone else.

Arthur grunts at that. “I will be able to handle Oberyn. But what do we do if Princess Lyanna wishes to be involved during the discussions?” Whilst it seems strange to think of now, Princess Lyanna had become a mother figure to Princess Daenerys, whilst establishing something of a tentative relationship with the King-there’s that word again- and as such, she might well want to get involved. Something, Arthur knows would make things very awkward.

Ser Willam speaks. “I shall make sure that Princess Lyanna is not around when Prince Oberyn is here. She shall need to run some errands with me.”

Arthur nods, and though he thinks that that is not right, he still wonders how things will go down, and he wonders at so much more. Tentatively he asks. “What other word has there been from Westeros?”

There is a long moment of silence, then Ser Jonothor nods. “It seems we might have more friends at court than first thought. The eunuch has reached out to see if he might be of assistance.”

“Do you trust him?” Arthur asks, remembering how Rhaegar had mistrusted the bald man from Lys.

He feels reassured when Jonothor shakes his head. “No, but he will be of use for the war to come. We must have information.”

Arthur nods, accepting this, but not really liking it, the sooner they can return home, the better things will be.


	7. Red Viper

****

**8 th Month of 285 A.C. Braavos**

**Prince Oberyn Martell**

The rebellion had happened whilst he’d been serving his time in exile, mother had died long before that, but the fact that Doran had not summoned him back, had not thought to use him and the men he had under his employment by then, that was something that angered him. Perhaps he and his men could have made the difference, perhaps they could have fought and kept uncle Lewyn from dying, perhaps they could’ve guarded Elia and her children, and ensured that they were alive now. There were so many ifs and buts, but it did not matter now, his sister and her children were dead, gone, they had gone to join father and mother in the skies above. Doran lived, though Oberyn did not think his brother should truly be around, not in place of Elia, the things Doran had done and not done during the rebellion greatly angered Oberyn, and yet here he was, in Braavos meeting with the representatives of the man he considered the rightful King. To discuss things, when they should give them willingly.

He looks at Arthur, the famed Sword of the Morning, the man who had abandoned Elia for Rhaegar, and was now here, trying to gain some form of forgiveness no doubt, he looks next at Ser Oswell Whent, a man Oberyn has always liked. Then there is Ser Jonothor Darry, the oldest of the Kingsguard here, and the one who Oberyn respects the most, he had grown up hearing stories about Ser Jonothor and his prowess. He takes a breath then says. “Thank you all for agreeing to meet with me. I know that things are quite chaotic at the moment. My brother has done his part to try and waylay the usurper’s concerns, but now, he believes that the time is right for an alliance to be struck once more.”

“It is not an alliance if it is between a King and his subject.” Ser Jonothor says.

Oberyn nods his head in acceptance of this. “That is true, or rather it would be true, if King Viserys still held the throne. Surely you can accept such a thing Ser?”

Ser Jonothor merely grunts at that, Ser Willam Darry, a man Elia had thought fondly of, speaks then. “So what are these terms that your brother would present the King with?”

Oberyn takes a deep breath, if he is being honest with himself, he does find the terms slightly disgusting, but Doran is most definitely their mother’s son, and as such, finds nothing odd about demanding so much from a man they would consider their King. “In return for a pledge of allegiance, and funds as well as aid in regaining the throne, Prince Doran would be most obliged if King Viserys could confirm that Dorne and House Martell will enjoy its traditional rights and privileges, and that it will be considered worthy of its princely rank.” He hesitates for a moment and then says. “And that a marriage take place as well. Or rather a betrothal.”

He can tell that the men before him are not surprised by these demands, perhaps Doran has already become predictable. Ser Willam speaks then. “And who would the betrothal be between?”

“King Viserys, and Prince Doran’s oldest daughter, Princess Arianne. A marriage similar to the one arranged between King Daeron the Good and Mariah Martell at the end of the Dornish conquest.” Oberyn says.

“So, Prince Doran wants a marriage and the restoring of his traditional rights and privileges, something he already has thanks to bending to the usurper, in return for supporting his rightful King?” Ser Jonothor asks, something akin to disgust in his voice.

“Prince Doran is trying to do what is best for Dorne Sers. I am sure you can understand that. He has a Kingdom to think about, and as such he needs guarantees that if things are to go well, then he and the kingdom will be rewarded for their service.” Oberyn responds.

Ser Jonothor snorts, and Ser Willam speaks in response. “There are not seven Kingdoms Prince Oberyn, there is only one Kingdom, there is only one Westeros, and King Viserys is its rightful ruler. You should not make demands of your King.”

“But King Viserys does not sit the throne, and does not have the power to as of yet confirm or deny anything, hence why these demands are being made now.” Oberyn states. “We need to make sure that we are protected for all intents and purposes.”

There is a long moment of silence then as they all consider his words, Oberyn wonders if he has said the right things, if he has done the right thing, of if he should change course now, he still finds the words relatively hard to say, considering all Rhaegar did to Elia, with that whore. He takes a breath, and then looks at Ser Jonothor who speaks then. “Very well, if that is the course of action that Prince Doran wishes to take, we shall agree to it. He shall have the confirmation of his traditional rights, but the betrothal, will not happen. Not now.”

Oberyn knows without even having to think about it that Doran would find such a thing unacceptable, but he can understand why they are refusing the betrothal, they are not in such a dire situation as one might have thought. “Very well, I shall take this offer back to my brother and see what he has to say.”

“No, either agree to these terms now or leave and never return.” Ser Jonothor says, his voice commanding.

That surprises Oberyn, but he supposes that he should’ve expected it, considering he has been given the power to agree to anything with his brother’s permission. Sighing he says. “Very well then, let us proceed with this.” he is completely unsurprised when Ser Willam places a piece of paper on the table before them, and Oberyn affixes his seal and that of his brother’s to the document, whilst the Kingsguard and Ser Willam do the same. Once it is done he nods to them and says. “Well then, we shall see how this alliance progresses.”


	8. Be Prepared

**2 nd Month of 286 A.C. King’s Landing**

**King Robert I Baratheon**

The throne was damnably uncomfortable, Aegon the Conqueror had said something about that, some nonsense about the King never being able to sit comfortably whilst ruling. Robert personally felt that was nonsense, that it was just another sign of the Targaryen hubris, and that was just one more thing to make him feel better, for sitting in the throne. He had considered burning the throne, and getting rid of it, and bringing the throne from Storm’s End, he was a Stag not a dragon after all, but Jon had talked him out of it, telling him that doing such a thing would likely cause some sort of uprising. Robert had not cared, but he had acquiesced all the same, he had learned a long time ago, that it was better to simply agree with Jon and not dispute anything he said. Still, there were times when he wondered why it was him sitting the throne, he hated being King, hated it with everything he had. He would have rather given the throne to Ned or Jon, but no, he had the claim and so he had to sit the throne.

He’d felt alive, for the first time in three years when he’d been informed of the rebellion that Darry had instigated, some nonsense about restoring the dragons, the man had gotten little support apart from a few loose screws in the Riverlands. Still Robert had delighted in riding out in his armour and crushing the rebellion. Darry was before him now, bent and humble, but not broken. He laughs and then says. “Raymun Darry, you rebelled against your King. You committed treason and should die for that.” There is a moment’s silence.

“You are no King of mine, Baratheon.” Darry responds, his voice angry.

“You bent the knee to me Darry, just as everyone else who fought for the dragons did. Tell me, why should I not kill you?” Robert asks, wondering what the man’s response will be.

“I have no reason for you not to, usurper.” Darry responds.

That surprises Robert. “So you would rather I kill you? How very interesting. Would you rather I did the same to your brothers and their children?”

At that Darry’s face contorts into worry. “No. They are innocent of any crime, that you accuse me of.”

Robert snorts at that. “Really? As far as I remember your brothers were fighting alongside you at the Plowman’s field, and furthermore, your nephews and nieces tried to harm my men. No, I think the time has come for you to be dealt with, all of you. I shall not have traitors in my kingdom.”

Darry’s eyes go comically wide at that. “Please, whatever you do, do not harm them.”

Robert looks at the man, wondering how such a man could want to fight for a dragon, after all the chaos and destruction the dragons brought to Westeros. He shakes his head then, some people are just mad, and the Darrys have proven to be as mad if not madder. “Very well then. Though, I would wish to see you dead, I shall instead be more lenient. On the advice of my council, I exile House Darry to Essos, if you ever set foot in Westeros again, you shall be killed on sight.”

There is a large case of murmuring at that, and Robert sees Merrett Frey, the fool grinning from ear to ear, the sight disgusts Robert. Raymun Darry however, merely looks at him and says. “Very well then. But you will never be able to hold the throne Baratheon. It only recognises one true King.”

Robert stares at the man, anger seething through him. “Merrett Frey and his family are to be the new rulers of Castle Darry and its associated lands and incomes.” He sees Darry’s eyes go comically wide, but continues. “Now get out of my sight before I change my mind.” Darry and his family stagger out of the throne room, and Robert turns his attention to the next batch of traitors. “Lord Cafferen.” The man looks at him, tall and muscled, just like his father. “You are exiled alongside whatever pitiful remnants there are of your family, same deal with Darry, come back and you shall die.” These are all people he wants to kill, for their loyalty to a mad King and his spawn, but Jon had advised against that, saying something like doing so would merely piss of the people he cannot piss off.

Once the man and his family are led away, Robert sits on the throne a moment more, before standing and calling out. “That’s that then. Enough of this shit.” He staggers off of the throne and walks towards his room, where he knows there will be a whore waiting for him, he hasn’t seen Cersei since she got with child, the bitch had become even more unbearable since she got with child. More often than not, he finds himself wondering what Lyanna would’ve been like had she lived, whether she would’ve been as feisty as he imagines her being, or whether she’d have been as much of a bitch as Cersei. He’d like to think she’d have been the first, but there is a voice that always nags him into believing she’d have been the second.

As the whore opens her arms and her legs to him, Robert finds himself drowning in a sea of regret and anger. He fucks the whore again and again until he is spent, that done, he sends the whore out of his room, leaving him alone with his regrets and his anger. He sits on the edge of the bed, holding a necklace, the necklace he’d have given Lyanna had she not been taken by Rhaegar. He looks at the necklace, and then places it on the table, and grabs his hammer, determined to hit something, or someone, he needs to work more. The hammer needs blood.

 


	9. Children

****

**6 th Month of 286 A.C. Braavos**

**Princess Lyanna Targaryen nee Stark**

There were times when she missed home, when she missed Winterfell, desperately. She missed the castle, the sounds of people working and going about their daily routine, she missed playing in the godswood with Benjen, she missed causing all kinds of havoc, and having father scold her and then wrap her in his embrace. She missed Brandon and the crazy things they would do, she missed her home, but realised that the moment she had run off with Rhaegar she had decided her fate. It had been a bitter pill to swallow at first, she was only a girl, and yet she was a mother, it had been a strange thing to think on, to process, but gradually she had come to understand what that all meant. She loved her son, she loved him with everything in her, and she would do anything for him, but it had taken time for her to realise that. She hoped that meant she was maturing, for being a child and having to help raise three children would not do, it just would not.

Her son and Princess Daenerys were sat on the bed next to her, looking at her with pleading faces, as if they knew that she would not be able to say no. They were right of course, there was nothing that she could deny them and so she looks at them and asks. “Okay, you have the chance for one more story before bed time, so tell me what do you want the story to be?”

Almost at once Daenerys speaks. “Florian and Jonquil!” Lyanna smiles slightly, that’s the girl’s favourite story, or rather song.

Her son, Jon, named for Jon Stark, grimaces as only a three-year-old can. “Oh please not that one, I hate that one.”

Lyanna hides a laugh behind her hand, as she sees Daenerys pout at Jon and respond. “It’s far more better than anything you might want to know.”

Lyanna smirks then, seeing her son about to protest, she quickly intercedes. “Would you like to hear about Winterfell?”

She feels her heart soar a little at the look of delight in both children’s eyes. “Oh yes please Mama.” Jon says.

“And what about you Daenerys, would you like to hear about Winterfell?” Lyanna asks.

Daenerys seems to hesitate for a moment, and then she nods. “I would.” The girl gives her a shy smile, and Lyanna smiles in return.

“Well then, I guess it is best to start at the beginning.” Lyanna says, watching as her son and his aunt fix her with their full attention. She takes a deep breath and then speaks the words she heard once as a child. “Long ago, the stories tell us that Brandon the Builder, the First Stark, and perhaps the greatest of them all, built Winterfell, out of wood and timber, using magic and giants to do his bidding. He built the First Keep, and the Great Keep, and the crypts, and throughout it all he did it with a smile and a laugh.”

“Why was he laughing Mama?” Jon asks.

Lyanna smiles. “Because, he was building something to prove a point to his brother.”

“He had a brother?” Daenerys asks surprised, she likes hearing the histories.

“Oh yes, his brother was named Garth, and he was quite the trickster. He had met a wager with his brother about who could build the biggest and best castle in all of Westeros.” Lyanna responds.

“And did Brandon think he had built the biggest one?” Jon asks.

“Oh of course. Brandon had something that Garth did not have.” Lyanna says.

“What was that Mama?” Jon asks.

“The love of his people. Whilst Garth was a shrewd man, he did not have the love of his people, Brandon did. And his people helped him wherever they could, and so the castle was built bigger and better than anything Brandon could have possibly thought possible.” Lyanna states.

“The love of his people helped?” Jon asks sounding unsure.

“Oh yes.” Lyanna says smiling, she had expressed similar uncertainty the first time she had heard the story as well.

“How?” Jon asks.

Lyanna takes a moment to consider how best to explain this to her son and his aunt, finally she settles on a course, and goes with it. “The love of his people enabled him to ask them to do things that Garth could not ask his people to do. It was their love that went into the building of the castle as much as it was magic and the labour of giants. Their love was what gave him the strength to keep going, to keep pushing through everything that came.”

Jon’s eyes are as wide as anything Lyanna has ever seen, and she smiles softly at that. “Wow, that is really, really cool!” her son exclaims.

Lyanna smiles, and kisses the top of her son’s head and then kisses the top of Daenerys head and says. “Now, one more story on Winterfell and then bed, okay?”

“Okay!” both of them reply.

“When the building of the castle was done, Brandon held a great feast, and when some of his men tried to deny the common folk entrance, he came to them, and told them that the common folk were as responsible for the castle as anyone else. And so they were welcomed into the castle, and they were feasted and toasted for nights and nights. There was much singing and dancing.” Lyanna says, thinking of Winterfell, and feeling a pang in her chest.

“I want to see Winterfell one-day Mama!” Jon exclaims then.

Lyanna feels her stomach flip slightly at her son’s words, the feeling of missing her home engulfs her then, fighting to keep her voice normal she smiles, kisses her son’s hair and then says softly. “I am sure you will soon Jon. Goodnight my loves.” She moves from the bed, watching as the two of them shift into comfortable positions on the bed.

“Love you Mama.” Jon says sleepily.

“I love you too my sweet boy, I love you both.” Lyanna responds, and finds that she means it, she truly means it.


	10. King

****

**12 th Month of 286 A.C. Braavos**

**King Viserys III Targaryen**

Braavos was a hot and humid place, unlike King’s Landing or even Dragonstone. Viserys could not quite remember King’s Landing, despite the fact that he fought like mad to remember the place that he had called home from the time he was a babe. He remembered the smells, and the sounds, but he could not place faces. Dragonstone was clear in his mind, a place of towering dragons, a place where he had last seen his mother. Mother, he remembered her, she was kind and caring, she had died, died because of the usurper’s men and his lies. He had promised mother that he would care for Daenerys, his little sister, and he was trying to, he told her stories, and he played with her. He played with his nephew-he was an uncle that was a strange thing- Jon, the boy was called, he was a good kid, Viserys liked him, even if he wasn’t sure what to make of his nephew’s mother, Lady Lyanna, she was something.

The clearing of a throat brings him back to reality, he looks at the culprit, and finds himself looking at Haldon, the man responsible for teaching him his lessons. Haldon is a half maester, what that means, Viserys is not sure, but he gets the impression that Ser Jonothor and Ser Willam do not approve.  “I hope you remember what we were discussing Your Grace.” Haldon says, something akin to amusement in his voice.

Viserys straightens and replies. “Of course.” When he sees a questioning look on the man’s face, he replies. “We were talking about King Aegon the Fortunate.”

“And, what have you learned about the King?” Haldon asks, in that way of his that makes Viserys think he’s actually looking to see whether or not he is doing something right or not.

Viserys takes a breath and then speaks. “Following his coronation, King Aegon ordered the arrest of Brynden Rivers, for inviting Aenys Blackfyre to court and then killing him. King Aegon believed that Brynden had undermined the word of the throne when he had done that and he needed to be made an example of.” Viserys pauses for a moment and then says. “After that, Brynden Rivers was sent north to the wall, taking with him King Aegon’s brother Maester Aemon.” He pauses once more and then asks. “Do you really think someone would have used the King’s own brother against him?”

He sees that the question has caught Haldon off guard, for the man’s eyebrows have done that thing where they go up his face and then come down quite quickly, the man’s voice is slightly hesitant when he responds. “I am not sure Your Grace. Maester Aemon was a smart man, and was someone who would always put the interests of the Kingdoms in front of his own wants. That was why he volunteered to go north to the wall, away from court and trouble. King Aegon was a good man, the histories suggest as much, but there was a lot about him that many of the nobles did not like.”

Viserys feels the crown like a weight atop his head then, Ser Jonothor had insisted that he wear the crown whenever he has lessons, so that he might know the weight of it. Right now it’s causing his head to itch something fierce. “Was it because he wanted to bring better things into the lives of the common people?” Viserys asks, he remembers his father and mother talking about their grandfather once long ago.

“Yes, it seems that many of the lords who were opposed to King Aegon, were opposed to him because they believed he was not noble enough to truly understand what it meant to be King. His time with the common people as a child, they believed had changed his mind into something that was not good. As the years progressed, things became more evident, and it seemed that they were right.” Haldon responds.

That seems odd, and so Viserys asks. “What do you mean?”

“King Aegon tried to change things, over the years, the Crown had reached an understanding with the lords of the realm. So long as they paid their taxes and answered the summons to arms when it came, they were allowed to do what they wanted. But under King Aegon, that system began to change. The crown was starting to get more and more involved in the running of the individual kingdoms, and that did not sit well with many lords.” Haldon says.

Viserys considers this and then says. “Surely if they had been doing their duty properly, the King would not have felt the need to get involved?”

Haldon chuckles at that, making Viserys wonder if the man is doing that thing grownups do where they get you to say something and then laugh as if you have said something silly, that really annoys him. Eventually, the man speaks. “One would think so Your Grace, but other than the Westerlands, every other Kingdom during this time was relatively safe and stable.”

“The Westerlands, where the Lannisters come from?” Viserys questions.

“Yes Your Grace.” Haldon responds.

Viserys thinks on this. “I see. And how much good did King Aegon do for the Westerlands?”

“Your Grace?” Haldon asks sounding uncertain of what it is his King is asking him.

“The Westerlands were in chaos during this point were they not? What good did King Aegon do there?” Viserys asks, his patience beginning to wane.

“During the latter part of King Aegon’s reign they were in trouble, Lord Tytos was not a good lord, he was far too generous and was taken advantage of. King Aegon restored order and good will there.” Haldon responds.

“I see, and were the Westerlords thankful for this?” Viserys asks.

“Yes.” Haldon responds simply.

“Good, chaos is the death of order.” Viserys says, repeating a phrase he had heard his brother saying often when they were together.


	11. Double Time

****

**3 rd Month of 287 A.C. Braavos**

**Benjen Stark**

Things had become stifling at Winterfell for Benjen, it wasn’t that he didn’t love Ned, or adore Catelyn, or his nephew and niece, it was just that, he didn’t feel as if he fit in there anymore. He had constantly felt as if he was intruding on something, and as such it didn’t sit right with him. So he had asked Ned for permission to go travelling, which Ned had granted- of course he would, Ned was too easy- and so he had left from White Harbour and arrived in Braavos, merely here to find himself or to find something to do. That was when he had heard a rumour, about a dragon, and so he had gone looking, he remembered the words his father had always said, and Benjen had never approved of the removal of the dragons to begin with. That was how he had been found, and that was how he had ended up here, before the King, the rightful King.

King Viserys was a boy of ten namedays, the same age Benjen had been when he had learned the truth. The boy was sat on a chair, flanked by two of the Kingsguard, something made evident by their dark silver armour with the three headed dragon of the royal house on it. Ser Jonothor Darry and Ser Oswell Whent-someone he had thought had died- were standing before him. “Why are you here?” the King asks, his voice high pitched, but still somehow commanding.

“I have come to swear my fealty to the rightful King Your Grace.” Benjen responds, and he sees a strange look cross over the King’s face before it disappears.

“You are related to Eddard Stark are you not?” the King asks.

“I am.” Benjen responds cautiously.

The King’s face scrunches then, his voice questioning when he replies. “How are you related to him?”

Benjen hesitates for the briefest of moments before replying. “I am his brother Your Grace.”

The next question the King asks him is not surprising. “How do I know I can trust you?”

Benjen takes a deep breath and then says. “My brother might have supported Robert Baratheon during his usurpation, but my family has always been fervent in our dedication to the Targaryen family. I believe that you are the rightful King Your Grace, there is nothing that can sway me from that view. I will do whatever it takes to prove my loyalty to you.” The words are heartfelt and truly meant.

The King looks at him intrigued, before turning to whisper something to Jonothor Darry, a legendary knight and man. It is the knight who responds. “Words are wind Stark. How do we know that you are not merely here to report to your brother or even the usurper?”

Benjen thinks over this, trying to decide how best to respond, eventually he says. “Ask me anything, and if it is within my power to, I will give you the answer.”

Benjen can see something akin to surprise flit over the Kingsguard’s face, whilst the King seems very intrigued. He sees Ser Jonothor lean back to talk with the King, and then the King asks him. “What is your name?”

“Benjen Stark.” Benjen responds, he sees something akin to recognition flit across Ser Jonothor’s face then.

“You were at Harrenhal?” the King asks.

“I was Your Grace.” Benjen responds, wondering where this line of questioning is going.

“Did you watch my brother joust?” the King asks.

“I did Your Grace.” Benjen responds, his mind flitting back to that moment, where all the smiles died.

The King looks at him intently, and then asks. “What armour was my brother wearing on that day?”

Benjen thinks for a moment and then says. “Armour that was black as night with a ruby glowing in the breast.”

The King nods looking thoughtful. “What did my brother say to your sister?”

That question surprises Benjen, and he wonders why the King is asking him that, how the King could know that. He hesitates for a moment and then says. “He told her that she was ice incarnate.”

The King, who looks more like a dragon than a child now, nods, a smile on his face. The King looks at Ser Oswell-Benjen is still surprised that the man is alive- and says “Bring her in.” the knight nods and moves toward the door, opening it, and returning a few moments with someone that Benjen had thought long dead. She knocks the breath out of him when she hugs him.

“Lyanna.” He breathes, not quite believing his eyes.

“Benjen.” His sister responds, looking at him with tears in her eyes.

Before Benjen can ask her anything, the King is speaking once more. “Benjen Stark, if you are true as you say you are, you will answer me this.” Benjen looks at the King then, marvelling at the boy before him. “What was said between Torrhen Stark and Aegon the Dragon when they met that day long ago?”

The question completely catches him off guard, it is a tale his father told him once long ago, a tale that Ned never heard for he grew up in the Vale, and eventually, the meaning of this comes to him. He gets down on bended knee before the King, looks him square in the eye and responds. “Forever and always, we are the men who shall defend the north from the foes of this world. We shall be yours forevermore, in this world and the next. We are ice, and we shall always guard your front, when the winds of winter come calling. We are yours.”

The King stands then, a crown atop his head, the boy walks and stands before him and says. “Do you hold true?”

Benjen nods. “I do, I always will.”

“Then rise Benjen Stark, and be welcomed into the home of the dragons. From this day till your last, you are my man. You will do as I command, from this day forward. Your pain is my pain; your joy is my joy. Now let us move forward into the light.” The King responds, the words sounding strange coming from his mouth, but also right at the same time.


	12. Darry

****

**8 th Month of 287 A.C. Braavos**

**Lord Raymun Darry**

He missed his home, he missed waking up on soft sheets, and the smell of freshly baked bread, he missed hearing the birds chirping in the morning, and the barking of dogs in the evening. But most of all, he missed the castle itself. The Ploughman’s Keep, the centre of Darry power for centuries, it was no longer his, belonging to a Frey of all people. He did not regret the rebellion, it had been the only true course of action someone like him could take, but he regretted the fact that a Frey now held the castle. He could remember well his father’s views on the Freys, treacherous whoresons who deserved to be cut out and removed from existence. Raymun agreed, but knew there was no point worrying about something like that, instead he had to focus on the present, on the everyday.

And right now, the people in front of him were his uncles, the legendary Ser Jonothor Darry, who wore his white cloak with great pride, and Ser Willam Darry, an old man who was gathering the remaining piece of his energy for a dance that might never come. Raymun takes a sip of wine and speaks. “As I have said before, there is a lot of loyalty for Robert Baratheon in Westeros. It seems the fact that he is backed by the Lannisters as well as two other Great Houses, means that people have lost their stones and forgotten their oaths.”

“Tully will not remain loyal to Baratheon for long, that much I know.” Ser Jonothor says.

“What makes you say that?” Raymun asks, wondering whether his uncle is becoming senile in his dotage. “Hoster Tully’s daughters are married to a Stark and an Arryn respectively, two men and houses who supported the usurper during his rebellion. Why would he stop supporting the man?”

His uncle looks as if he is a simple man, and that does more to aggravate him than anything. “Because Hoster Tully is not a foolish man, and if what you have told us is true, the Lannisters are slowly encroaching on his lands, and the usurper is not doing anything to stop it.”

Raymun considers this for a moment, thinking over the state of the court as he remembers it from his time there, no matter the reasons for him being there. Eventually he says. “Even if that is true, it took a double marriage for Hoster Tully to change sides, why would he now go back to the King, if he thinks that he has all that he wants.”

He can tell that the question is one that stumps both his uncles, and for a brief moment he feels something akin to satisfaction, but before that can settle, Ser Willam says. “Because he does not have everything. He has a daughter married to one of the most powerful Lord Paramounts in the realm, and another who is married to the Hand, but no connection to the royal family, we can offer him that.”

It takes him a moment to comprehend just what his uncle is suggesting and when he does comprehend it, he immediately begins protesting. “Surely you would not think of using Princess Lyanna as a bargaining tool to gain Lord Hoster’s support? She fled from one marriage for that reason.”

At this he sees his uncle Jonothor’s lip turn into a scowl. “She will do what the King commands.”

“You would manipulate the King into getting this done?” Raymun asks shocked.

“We would do what is necessary to see the King restored to his throne. We cannot do that without the support of a major lord.” Ser Willam responds.

Raymun considers this, he does not know Princess Lyanna all that well, she does tend to keep to herself or to her brother, but from the little time he has spent with her, he knows her to be a charming woman, and strong, that most of all. After some hesitation he says. “I think it would be best to broach this with her first. After all, now that her brother is here, I think we should not assume anything.”

His uncles look at him for a moment, a strange look playing across both their faces, before they merely nod. A silence falls for a moment, and then Ser Jonothor speaks. “So tell us Raymun, what are you planning on doing? Lord Cafferen is training men here, and Lord Connington has finally come to his senses and is working on getting the Golden Company. But what of you? What role do you want?”

The question leaves Raymun floundering for a moment, he does not know exactly what he wants, what role he wants to play for the King, he had not even thought he would be Lord of Darry, always thinking that role would go to either Errold or Edgar, but now, now he is Lord of Darry and responsible for his younger brothers, and gods this is hard. After some time, he eventually speaks. “I think, I think I would like to serve the King in the best way possible, whatever that might be.”

His uncles look at him for a moment, and then Ser Jonothor nods. “Very well. If you wish to serve the King, get to know Princess Lyanna, get to know her brother, and make sure they are on the same side as us.”

Raymun nods, feeling distinctly uncomfortable at the thought of doing so, but if it means that he is serving his King then so be it. Their meeting comes to an end, and he watches his uncles leave his room, walking with slight limps in their steps, sure signs that age is getting to them. A few moments later, there is a knock on the door, and Benjen walks into his room, looking sad. “What is it?” Raymun asks, nervousness filling him then.

“I’m not sure whether or not we can remain here for much longer.” Benjen responds.

“What do you mean?” Raymun asks.

“I think the usurper has found us.” Benjen responds, and Raymun feels fear creep into him.


	13. 13

**2 nd Month of 288 A.C. King’s Landing**

**King Robert I Baratheon**

The throne was a weight around him, a chain around his neck that was slowly tightening around him with every passing year. He had never wanted the throne, he had fought the rebellion to get Lyanna back, to get revenge for the murders of Lord Rickard and Brandon. Instead Lyanna had died, and he had been left with the throne, and a weight, and an expectation he had never wanted. He did not know why he bothered getting up in the morning, he could barely function anymore without having a cup of wine, or maybe six. He needed it, he hated his wife, he hated the Lannisters, he hated it all, but he remained King. He had won the throne, and he supposed he might as well live with his punishment until he died. There was just one silver lining, so long as he sat the throne, the dragon spawn could never take it back. That was a thought that really made him smile.

The council had been convened on his order, it was one of the few times he even bothered to show up, but he was desperate to know how the plan had gone. And so as he looks around the room, he shakes the cobwebs from his mind and speaks. “So? How did it go? Do we know if they are dead?”

There is a moment of silence, an uneasy silence, and that warns Robert that something might not be quite right. Eventually, Lord Varys speaks, his voice soft and fearful. “It did not Your Grace.”

“What!” Robert booms. “How could it not work? They were right where we wanted them to be, and none would have alerted them to the presence of the knives. How could it have failed?”

Lord Varys shifts slightly, uneasily, and Robert wonders at that. “It seems they knew somehow, the men hired for the job were either killed or forced to flee.”

Robert slams his fist onto the table, rocking it. “How could they have failed so badly? Did they give themselves away? Is there a traitor amongst our midst?” he bellows, looking around at the men around him.

“I am sure that the Targaryens got lucky Your Grace, none here would dare betray you.” Jon says, soothingly, but that does not help him.

“And yet, there are dragons out there in the world still. How?!” Robert responds, staring directly at Varys.

The eunuch has the decency to look down from him, his voice soft when he replies. “It seems that they were forewarned, or at least acted as if they were. When the men tasked with doing the job came for them, the dragons were already running and there were knights there looking to protect them.”

That perks his interest. “Knights? Which knights?”

“Darry knights, and Cafferen Knights Your Grace.” The eunuch responds.

Robert laughs then, a deep rumbling sound. “Of course, it just had to be them didn’t it?” he looks at Jon then. “Your plan did not work then Lord Arryn, the traitors still live.”

Jon has the decency to look abashed. The eunuch continues. “Indeed, it seems that they made up the bulk of the resistance against the knives sent.”

That surprises him. “How knives did you send out?”

“Ten. To be extra sure.” The eunuch responds.

“Ten knives, and they failed to get there once?!” Robert exclaims. “You need to reconsider who you use for such things eunuch.”

“Of course Your Grace.” The eunuch simpers.

Robert looks around the chamber then, his eyes burning with rage, anger fuelling him. “So, the attempt to rid us of the most obvious threat to stability within the kingdom, has ended in failure. The dragons are out there somewhere, alive and whole. No doubt, whatever fool learns of this who has a modicum of dragon sympathies will try to rise against me now.”

There is a moment of silence as they all consider this, and then the eunuch speaks. “My little birds had some interesting information for me recently Your Grace. It seems that Prince Oberyn was seen coming from Braavos a few moons ago, from the exact place where we now know that the dragons were staying.”

That perks his interest. “Oh, so the Red Viper was not even bothering to hide his traitorous intent then?” he asks.

The eunuch nods. “It would seem so Your Grace. Indeed, as you are all aware, the Red Viper has not remained silent, about how opposed he is to his brother bending the knee. It seems that he decided to take things a step further.”

“Has he actually declared for the dragonspawn?” Robert asks, his voice coming out heavy.

He feels some disappointment when he sees the eunuch shake his head. “Not as far as I can tell Your Grace. But it does seem as though they were meeting fairly regularly for some time, to go over things. At least, that was the case, before the attack.”

Desperate to get something good from this rather dark day, Robert asks. “Do you think that would have changed?”

The eunuch takes a deep breath and then says. “I am not sure Your Grace; I think Prince Oberyn is most definitely playing a dangerous game here. Whether or not it is one his brother is playing, I cannot tell.”

“You have birds in Dorne do you not Varys?” Robert asks, fighting to keep something akin to hope in his person.

“I do Your Grace.” The eunuch responds.

“Well then make use of them. I want to know everything that is happening in Dorne, and I want to know it when it happens. I will use it and crush them like the ants they are.” Robert booms, something akin to confidence coming through him for the first time since the trident. He gets up then, deciding he has had enough of the meeting, walks back to his room, and drinks his wine, takes his hammer, and decides to practice, if there is to be war, he will need to be at his best.


	14. Snake In The Grass

****

**4 th Month of 288 A.C. Sunspear**

**Prince Oberyn Martell**

It was hot, and when it was hot, Oberyn Martell often felt impatient, that was not something that had changed with age. He was still impatient, but now he was impatient to be in bed with Ellaria. He was impatient to do things to Ellaria, things that had been driving him wild for the past few hours, ever since they had separated that morning. Doran had summoned him to meet with him, and to attend court, the latter he had done, it had been boring, but necessary. The former, was yet to happen, and for some reason, Oberyn had the feeling that Doran was deliberately taking his time in seeing to him. That was not something he appreciated, things were getting more and more strained between the two of them, ever since the pact had been made without Arianne being betrothed to the King, and now nothing had happened. It was all quite frustrating really.

Eventually the door opens and he is summoned inside. Doran is sat where he normally is, on the balcony, where the air can reach him, Oberyn goes there and sits beside him, and they sit in silence for some time. He begins shifting after a while, and noticing that Doran smiles and speaks. “You are wondering why I have summoned you here.” It is not a question, but he answers nonetheless.

“Yes.” Is the response he gives, simple and to the point.

His brother looks at him and clearly sees something that makes him sigh. “Word has come from King’s Landing, from a trusted source. It seems you were seen by the usurper’s spies leaving the house in Braavos.”

His brother is looking at him pointedly, as if demanding an explanation from him without actually asking. Oberyn shrugs a shoulder. “So what if I was?”

His brother sighs once more. “Oberyn, the usurper now has his suspicions fully raised. Our friend has informed me that the King wants a cause to go to war. How could you let yourself be seen?”

Oberyn bristles slightly. “That was the plan was it not? I was there when they were not there.”

“That is not the time I mean Oberyn, and you know well that it is not.” Doran responds, something akin to exasperation coming to his voice. “They were still in Braavos when you were seen. That is the time the usurper knows about, and that is the time he is using to build a case for war.”

That perks Oberyn’s interest. “War? The usurper might actually try to invade Dorne. I would love to see him try.”

Doran sighs once more, and Oberyn feels his anger begin to grow. “He will not invade Oberyn, he will use some of the lords here against us. He will try and buy them with Lannister gold, and he will turn them against Sunspear. All because you were seen.”

That angers him further. “Do you truly think that anyone in Dorne would side with him? The man who walked to the throne over the dead bodies of innocents?” he cannot say her name, it hurts him too much.

Doran sighs. “Yes. We both know the Yronwoods would, they have Quentyn in their hands now. They have a puppet, they can use him, if offered the right price. We both know they will.”

Oberyn bristles then, hearing the accusation in his brother’s voice. “You did not have to give him over.”

“I did.” Doran responds. “To pay the blood debt owed.”

“What debt, the man died in a fair fight.” Oberyn snarls, anger flaring to life once more.

“Poison, we both know that that was how he died Oberyn, and now Quentyn has gone to pay that debt. So tell me, why did you allow yourself to be caught by the usurper’s men? Why?” Doran asks, genuine curiosity in his older brother’s voice.

Oberyn hesitates for a moment, trying to figure out how best to respond, before deciding on the truth, or a part of it anyway. “Because I am tired of waiting and hiding.”

“Why are you tired? We agreed on a plan Oberyn.” Doran says, sounding reproachful.

“I know!” Oberyn snarls. “I know! But I cannot keep waiting. Every day that goes by, every moon that runs by, every new year we welcome in, is another where she and her children are unavenged, where the King sits somewhere that is not the throne. Robert Baratheon grows stronger on the throne, and we are left with nothing. Why are we doing nothing Doran?!” he hates how his voice becomes pleading toward the end, but he cannot help it, because it is a genuine emotion that he feels.

His brother looks at him and sighs, a deep and sad sound, one that does nothing to soothe the tension and anger within him. “We are doing things Oberyn, you know this. We are helping keep the King safe, we informed him of the plot against him and his family. We are providing funds for him, and we are doing what we can to make sure the usurper does not sit comfortably atop his throne.”

“It doesn’t seem to be working.” Oberyn snaps, his anger getting the better of him. “The usurper remains secure on his throne, the rightful King is gods alone knows where, and now we might be facing a war. Why can we not just have the man killed?”

Doran does not sigh this time, though Oberyn thinks he would be well within his rights to, there are times when Oberyn wonders whether his brother ever had a childhood, or whether he was always like this, solid, unwavering, and unemotional. He thinks that perhaps he might have been, might have forced himself to be as such, growing up for a long time without siblings. Doran’s voice is firm when he responds. “Because Robert Baratheon must suffer for everything he has done, before he dies.”

“Suffer?” Oberyn asks. “How?”

The smile on Doran’s face is terrifying. “By losing everything he loves, everything he has ever loved, he shall lose. And we will be the ones to ensure he loses it brother. For Elia, for her children.”

Oberyn sees his brother extend a hand, and he takes it. “For Elia.” He agrees.


	15. Kingslayer

****

**8 th Month of 288 A.C. King’s Landing**

**Ser Jaime Lannister**

It had been five years since Robert Baratheon had ascended the throne, five years since Jaime had broken his vows and sworn himself to a King who was not his King. There was a part of him that wondered why he still lived, for killing the King he should’ve died, he knew Stark had wanted him dead, and yet because of the favour-gods he hated that word- that his own father had done the rebels, Jaime was alive and a member of the Kingsguard. The only thing that really kept him going was Cersei, she was the one person he could trust, who he could really love, and without her, Jaime knew he would be nothing, absolutely nothing. And that thought terrified him, he did not want to think about what that would be like, what sort of person he would be if she was not there with him.

He feels her hand on his face, and that draws him out of his stupor. “Are you alright?” he hears her ask, her voice soft.

“I am now.” He responds smiling, his heart soaring when she smiles in response.

“Where did you disappear off to? I had thought I’d lost you there for a moment.” Cersei questions.

Jaime smiles, leaning down to press his lips to hers. “You could never lose me Cersei. I was merely thinking.”

“What about?” his sister asks curiously.

Jaime thinks for a moment and then says. “Do you think Robert knows?” he means to add about us, but knows that doing so would be close to madness, there are ears everywhere.

Cersei’s laugh should be reassuring to him, but instead it merely makes him more nervous. “Oh I highly doubt it. Robert is an idiot, if it doesn’t have tits or isn’t bringing him wine he won’t pay attention. He barely looks at Joffrey.” The way she says that last part makes Jaime quirk his eyebrows.

“Does that anger you?” he asks.

Cersei sighs before kissing the tip of his nose. “It did once, long ago, when I was merely a foolish girl. But not anymore. Robert is not the man I love.”

Jaime smiles then and leans down to kiss her more fully. When they break apart, he smiles and responds. “Good. Robert is not worthy of your love.”

They rest in silence for a brief moment, before Cersei eventually breaks it. “What whisperings have you heard from your sworn brothers Jaime?”

Jaime thinks for a moment and then says. “Greenfield is getting paid by someone outside of our influence. I saw him meeting with someone who looked suspiciously like a Valeman two days ago.”

“Do you think Jon Arryn is actually paying the man then?” Cersei asks, sounding uncertain.

Jaime looks at his sister briefly, before staring back up at the ceiling. “No, I do not think so. I do not know Arryn well, but I know he is not the sort of person who would resort to bribery. No I think this was someone else.”

“His shrew of a wife?” Cersei asks.

“What makes you think it was her?” Jaime asks. “Or rather someone working for her?”

“Because Lysa Tully is exactly the sort of idiot who would think to pay a knight of the Kingsguard for information. She is paranoid as you know, and she desperately wants information. For it seems, she has finally learned that knowledge is power.” Cersei responds, curling into him a bit more.

Jaime thinks about this for a moment, and then says. “I’m not sure, she seems too timid to actually try something like that.”

Cersei laughs. “Oh Jaime, just because she appears timid whenever she looks at you, does not actually mean she is. Her father is an intimidating man; I would not be surprised if she is also like that. I think there is more going on here that we need to look at.”

“What do you need me to do?” Jaime asks, immediately alert.

“Speak with Greenfield, see what he has to say about things, you know what I mean?” Cersei responds, at his nod, she continues. “Get a sense of which way he seems to be drifting, and remind him of the things that we have to offer.”

“Okay, I will remind him.” Jaime responds.

There is another brief pause, before Cersei speaks once more. “What of the others?”

“Trant, is firmly ours, as we thought he would be, Blount is also ours, he sits and eats and does nothing. Moore, I am not sure about, he seems to be shifting one way or another. And Ser Rolland is someone I cannot get a read on.” Jaime responds, Ser Rolland Rivers, a fierce fighter, and someone who Jaime had admired as a child, a man Jaime feels honoured to know.

“What do you mean?” Cersei asks sounding slightly put out. “Why is Ser Rolland so hard for you to get a read on?”

Jaime huffs slightly, not really wanting to continue discussing his fellow brothers when they are like this, still Cersei wants information, and he has never been able to say no to her. “I am not sure, but I think there is something about him that just innately closes off around everyone. He is a soldier, and that means that he always knows when to close himself off. I am not sure who he is working for.”

Cersei seems to take this in her stride. “Very well, not to worry, you have done very well Jaime.” She leans up and kisses him full on the mouth, before pulling away, smiling at the moan of protest he gives at having her lips pulled away from his.  “There is one other thing that I wanted to discuss.”

“What is that?” Jaime asks, fiddling with the sheets.

“Robert looks as if he might declare war on Dorne. If he does, I want you to remain here, with me.” Cersei says looking at him pleadingly.

He doesn’t even have to think twice before he replies. “Of course.”


	16. Conversation

**12 th Month of 288 A.C. Volantis**

**Lord Raymun Darry**

The flight from Braavos had been chaotic, they had had only a few moments of warning, and then they’d had to move as fast as they possibly could. That they’d managed to avoid the knives, and get away relatively unscathed, Raymun thinks is a true testament to how much of a unit they have become. Though there are times when they all have their differences, they are growing stronger, and more united with every passing day. From Braavos they had travelled on foot and on horse, before coming to the place where they needed to be. Volantis. The great last outpost of Valyria, and the place where dragons had once dwelled, by virtue of their association with the King-a boy being worshipped as a God amongst the people of Volantis- they had gotten behind the legendary black wall, and were now living in relative comfort. But there were still challenges ahead for them.

The main challenge for Raymun was getting to know the Starks, whilst he could understand their reasoning for rebelling against the throne, Lord Eddard’s full support in the usurpation sat badly with him. And yet the man’s two siblings were nice people, Princess Lyanna was a strong willed woman who did as she pleased, whilst her brother Benjen was someone Raymun found himself becoming more and more fond of as time passed by. Indeed, as he sat down on the chair beside the aforementioned Stark, Raymun could not help but feel somewhat relieved at having someone his own age to talk to. He takes a sip of wine and then asks. “How are you finding it?” What exactly he means by that, is something he is not really sure of, but as always Benjen seems to understand.

“I think Volantis is a lovely city, or at least the parts behind the Black Wall are. I think that there is an inner tension within the place though.” Benjen responds.

That perks Raymun’s interest, he knows his uncles have been slightly concerned about the undercurrent of tension within Volantis, indeed the owner of the manse they are staying, belongs to the Tiger Party, a party well known for favouring war. “Do you think that it might come out to actual fighting?” he asks.

Benjen shakes his head. “Not between the two parties, but between the various factions that reside within the parties? Definitely. I think Volantis is reaching a breaking point.”

“Why do you think that? Nothing I’ve seen suggests that it is reaching such a critical juncture.” Raymun muses.

Benjen looks at him as if he has said something ridiculous, and for some reason he cannot quite pinpoint, Raymun feels a flutter of nervousness in his stomach, he doesn’t want Benjen thinking him an idiot. “I think that there is more to the city than meets the eye. Now that the King is here as well, the calls for Volantis to emerge from its stupor are growing louder. Your uncles have done their job masterfully.”

Raymun sighs at that, his uncles, they mean well, and they are fanatically loyal to the King, but it is that fanaticism, that often has him so uneasy, there is something unhealthy about it, whilst he is fiercely loyal to the King, there are certain lines he will not cross, that his uncles seem more than willing to cross, and he is not sure how to feel about that. Realising that he has been silent for a little too long, he speaks in response. “Aye, that is one thing they are good at doing.”

It seems that he has not quite been able to keep the bitterness from his voice, for Benjen asks. “Have they been saying things to you again?”

Raymun sighs, wishing not for the first time, that he had not mentioned that incident to Benjen, but there is something about the young Stark, that makes him very easy to talk to, and so Raymun sighs again, and nods. “Aye, they keep going on and on about how I have to do this and that, but they fail to realise that we do not have all the resources we did in Braavos. That it takes time to build such a network. They are getting old and desperate.”

Benjen takes his hand then, and Raymun feels his heart stutter a little. “Is there anything I can do?”

Raymun looks at their joined hands and sighs. “I do not know Benjen. My uncles are from a different time, and I think they will never know that the times are changing. I do not want to disappoint them, but I also know that I cannot stand to listen to them go on and on much longer.”

He feels Benjen squeeze his hand then. “Then don’t. Tell them what you think, how you feel. You are the head of House Darry, Ser Willam will have to listen to you. And if not, then go to the King, we both know the King adores you.”

“And he looks up to my uncle.” Raymun responds bitterly. “Ser Jonothor Darry, he was not there when his brother needed him, but he’s there at every pass and turn for the King.” He knows that he is not being fair, but still, the anger and bitterness is in him.

Benjen squeezes his hand and says. “You have to stand up for yourself Raymun, otherwise, you will get run over when we return to Westeros.”

“Do you think we will?” he asks. “Return to Westeros.”

“I am sure of it.” Benjen responds.

“How? How can you be so sure?” Raymun asks, hating how desperate his voice sounds.

“Because I believe we are going to be getting an opening very soon.” Benjen responds his voice light, though Raymun thinks there is more to it. Before he can think to ask more, he sees Benjen lean further, so that their noses are touching and then, he feels Benjen’s breath against his face, his lips against his, and all over thought disappears from his mind.


	17. Reaper

****

**4 th Month of 289 A.C. Pyke**

**Lord Balon Greyjoy**

The waves of the sea lapped across the rocks, as Balon looked down from his balcony, the sea, was a reassuring presence during these uncertain times. Balon had always found the water to be far more relaxing and easy bearing than the land, he was a Greyjoy after all, and they were meant to be at sea, regardless of what his father had thought. Quellon Greyjoy had been a fighter in his youth that much Balon knew, but something had happened that had made him into the man Balon had known. Quellon had died fighting during the rebellion, and Balon had taken over, but the plans Balon had made were still to come into true fruition. He had planned to rebel, but now he knew he needed to wait, to plan and prepare, to make sure it was all in order. The world was not yet ready for what Balon had planned, and as such, Balon was not sure whether he himself was ready, but still, things were progressing and so he was ready to discuss it all with his brothers, as well as with Rodrik, the boy was his heir, and though he might be a fool, he was going to rule Pyke one day.

Balon turns from the balcony and walks into his solar, his brothers and son sat there looking at him. He remains standing, to remind them who their lord is and speaks. “The waves are strong, and the wind is bright, but we cannot move yet. The Storm God could change his plans at any moment.”

“Who are we to fear the Storm God brother?” Euron asks, his voice light and mocking. “We are the waves; we can control him.”

Balon looks at his brother in annoyance. “We do not know such things brother. I do not need to remind you of what happened the last time you tried to make something like that happen.” He shivers slightly at the memory of the broken thing that had emerged.

His brother merely grins. “AH but that was just the beginning there is more to come. And if we were to make our moves now we could unleash them.”

Balon slams a fist down onto the table and snaps. “I said no. We shall not move to strike until I am sure that everything is going according to the plan.”

“And how long will that take brother? How long will we need to wait?” Euron asks, his voice soft, though Balon hears the menace in his tone.

“As Long as is necessary.” Balon responds.

“You are beginning to sound like father brother, I thought you would appreciate the need to take what was needed.” Euron replies.

Balon takes a deep breath, knowing his brother is only trying to bait him into reacting angrily, it takes all of his control, but eventually he manages to reply in a calm manner. “Father was an old man who was afraid of his own shadow. I am not him, but I know that we cannot strike now, we will lose if we strike now. We must wait, the man who sits the Iron Throne is not as weak as we thought he was. But he will be.”

“How do you know that?” Rodrik asks, his voice light. “For all we know he could be stronger than ever when we do finally strike.”

Balon looks at his son disappointed, Rodrik had shown so much potential when he was younger, but somewhere along the way that potential disappeared, and Balon is not sure where it went. He looks at his son and then looks at Euron and he thinks he knows where it went. Still, he cannot make his move yet, he needs to wait, to wait for the man to fall on the sword he has made for himself. He takes a breath and then says. “Baratheon is looking to take Dorne, that is the word coming from all the ports and sailors we have spoken with. Baratheon will break himself in Dorne, he will not recover from the damage that does to his reputation. We would need only wait for a few more moons after that before we could strike.”

“How do you know this?” Aeron asks, his youngest brother’s voice slurring slightly.

Balon looks at his brother disapprovingly, before looking at Victarion, his most trusted commander speaks. “Because Baratheon will want to go there himself, when he is beaten back and flees from Dorne with his tail between his legs, the lords of the realm will wonder why they should support him. The dragons took Dorne through peace, and the dragons are gone now, we can rely on Baratheon to fail more so than the dragons did. Baratheon does not have the support of everyone.”

“That’s what we thought when Darry rebelled, but Darry was crushed.” Euron points out.

“Dorne is not Darry.” Balon snaps. “Baratheon will fail, Dorne will go independent, or support the dragons openly, and the chaos will come from that. That is when we shall strike.”

“How do you know things will go like that brother?” Euron probes.

Balon takes a moment to consider his response and then he says. “Because I know men like Baratheon, and I know that the moment his invasion of Dorne fails, he will try again, and that will fail. Then the dragons will try to return. And when they do we will be ready.”

“Will we support the dragons then?” Rodrik asks.

Balon looks at his eldest son and shakes his head, anger adding strength to his words. “No. The dragons have done more to harm us and our way of life, than anyone else. We were once great; we shall be great once more.”

“So what will we do?” Rodrik asks.

“We shall become what we were always meant to be. We shall rule the waves, as Kings once more.” Balon responds, feeling the smile that has been threatening to appear on his face for some time appear now.


	18. From The Mouth Of Babes

**8 th Month of 289 A.C. Volantis**

**King Viserys III Targaryen**

Volantis was nicer than Braavos, the place they were staying was fit for a King, which he was. It was big, spacious and there were big gardens for him and Jon and Dany to play in, though he was getting to the point where he was too big to play such games. Volantis was hot and humid, but he liked it, it reminded him of Dragonstone, and having people waiting on his every word, was something he liked a lot. Slowly but surely, he was getting the feeling that this was real, that he was actually a King, not just a beggar, and that was important, after all, a King could not be a pauper, and he knew he was not, not really. Still, the reassurance was coming slowly but surely. And that was what mattered. He needed to make sure that Jon and Dany knew the truth of where they came from, of who they were, it was important that they knew, that they remembered, they were the last three of their house, it was important that they kept the house alive. True and proud, he remembered the promise he had sworn to his mother, and he would not break it.

On that note, he clears his voice and calls out. “Jon, Daenerys come here.” He feels a thrill of power as they come and sit before him, he feels some love for them as well, he might not like Jon’s mother much, but he loves his nephew. He takes a breath and then says. “Now, what part of our history do you want to know about today?”

“The Dragonknight!” Jon calls out as Viserys knows he would.

“Alysanne the Good!” Daenerys responds, sticking her tongue out at Jon.

Viserys smiles at their antics, and then says. “What about Daeron the Good?”

There is a moment of silence, and then Jon dutifully answers. “Of course Uncle Vissy. Wasn’t he the one who brought Dwone into the realm?”

Viserys knows he should tell his nephew not to call him Vissy anymore, after all the boy is six, but he finds that he cannot tell him no, and so he smiles and says. “Yes, yes he was. He was a good administrator, but he was not much of a fighter.”

“What’s an administrator?” Daenerys asks.

Viserys thinks for a moment, wondering how best to explain the word to them, and then settling on a definition proceeds. “An administrator is someone who looks at papers that talk about money and taxes and all other kinds of important things that are somewhat boring.” He grimaces slightly, thinking of the records he has to look at.

“That sounds bowing.” Jon responds, a pout on his face. “Why was he not a fighter?”

Viserys thinks over this, and finds himself wondering the same thing, he has always been taught, and has consequently taught Jon that to be a good King, a good Prince one needs to be able to fight, and yet here was a man who could not fight. He thinks over this then says. “He had strong men around him, men who enabled him to pursue his interests.”

“Men like the Dragonknight?” his nephew asks hopefully.

Viserys smiles, and ruffles the boy’s hair. “Aye, men like the Dragonknight.”

Jon beams up at him. “I want to be just like the Dragonknight when I grow up. I will fight for you Vissy.”

Viserys chuckles softly. “I am sure you will.”

“What about Daeron the Good though? He was married to a Martell wasn’t he?” Dany asks, looking up at him.

Viserys nods. “He was. Mariah Martell, a Princess of Dorne.”

“Was he her knight?” Dany asks.

 _No their marriage was a political one, one that might well have happened to me._ He thinks to himself, aloud he responds. “Yes, he was her knight.”

Dany cheers at that, but Jon asks. “How could he be her knight if he could not fight?”

Viserys looks at his nephew, smiles and then responds. “He was her knight in that he could fight for her with words, if not with a sword. He was a powerful man who was generous and kind to those who were loyal to him, and he punished those who betrayed him. Daemon Blackfyre was one such man.”

“He loved a girl named Daenerys didn’t he?” Dany asks.

“So the singers say. But I think he was using her.” Viserys replies.

“Why?” Dany asks.

“Because he was a cruel and unbalanced man, who hungered for something that was not his.” Viserys says simply.

“Like the usurper?” Jon asks innocently.

 _Protect your sister Viserys, protect her for everything you have. I will mother, I promised and I will. I’ll protect Jon as well; with everything I have._ The thoughts come unbidden to his mind at his nephew’s words, but he manages to force them down, and keep his voice calm as he replies. “Yes, like the usurper.”

He can tell that his nephew wants to say something more, but is uncertain of how to say it, and so he says. “So what more do you want to know?”

“What about Bwynden Riwvers, Uncle Vissy? What was he like?” Jon asks.

Viserys takes a breath then says. “He was a clever man, someone who knew how to get things done.” He pauses then gives his nephew and sister a conspirational look. “Through magic.”

“Magic?!” they both exclaim, their eyes going wide.

“Yes magic!” Viserys replies. “For you see Brynden Rivers was a follower of the old gods, and there is magic in the old gods. He used it to keep an eye over the kingdoms for the King, and to look after his family.”

“Like you do?” Dany asks.

Viserys feels his heart lurch slightly at her words, he remembers her tears as they fled Braavos, he remembers Jon complaining of having to hide and the rash he had suffered, and he remembers that it was because of him that they had had to flee. He swallows and then responds. “Yes, like I do.” He hugs both of them then, determined to protect them for as long as he can, no matter the cost.


	19. Appleton

****

**5 th Month of 290 A.C. Appleton**

**Lord Garth Appleton**

Winter had settled and then departed, or at least that was what it felt like to Garth, the weather outside suggested spring was returning, but for him, winter remained. His family had been left outside in the cold by Robert Baratheon and his regime. The promises that had been tendered during the rebellion-promises he had not thought of- had not materialised, and now the Tyrells and the Florents were reaping the rewards of their treachery. It was a bitter pill to swallow and one that Garth had had to swallow for some time now, and he had had enough. He was determined to make sure his house was recognised for what it was, and he had gathered some likeminded people. Lords Roxton, Cordwayner, Cuy and Shermer had come to his home to discuss their plans for the next few years, and he felt certain something would come of it.

Garth speaks first, looking around the room as he does so. “My lords, we all know why we are here. The Baratheons have reneged on their promises to us, and instead rewarded those far less deserving of the accolades they have received. The time has come for us to take what is ours, and to restore order to the world.”

There are murmurs of agreement at this, and Lord Roxton, a big man, a warrior, speaks. “I agree with Lord Garth. The time has come for us to emerge from the shadows and take what we are owed. We cannot sit on the side anymore.”

There are more murmurs of agreement, but then Lord Cuy speaks. “How might we go about doing this? Robert Baratheon sits the throne, and seems to have a relatively strong hold over it. His allies in the north and the riverlands as well as the west ensure none have seriously considered rebelling against him since Darry failed attempt. What are we going to do to get him to notice us? We are not Tyrell or Lannister. We have no money to dangle before him.”

Garth looks at the man, taking in his round belly, and his quivering jaw and snaps. “We have men, more than enough men to make the man on the throne consider us.”

“You would use force to make the King, the King remember, take notice of us. Do you remember what happened the last time someone tried to do that?” Lord Cuy responds.

Garth looks at the man and snarls. “Darry tried to rebel, we will not be rebelling, we will simply be reminding the man that we are not people who would be pushed around, nor are we people who will take these insults lying down.”

Lord Cuy does not look convinced, but before the man can respond, Lord Shermer speaks. “We need more allies; we lords are not enough to simply take on Baratheon. If we are to protest, how would we do it? Would we arm ourselves, or are we going to simply send a petition round?”

“Sending a petition will do nothing.” Lord Roxton responds. “Baratheon will throw it away, and then we will be left with nothing. Or his dog Jon Arryn will change the wording and ensure that Baratheon is more inclined to side with those who would see our interests shot down.”

“Then what?” Cuy asks. “Are we to march to war? Baratheon will not even need to get involved. He will merely need to send Tyrell or even Tarly to deal with us, and then we shall be nothing more than ash.”

Garth can feel the anger growing within him. “Tarly can be dealt with. That man is the one who Tyrell will rely on in dealing with us. If we get rid of him, then we shall be on a more even footing.”

“What of Rowan?” Cuy asks then. “Rowan is just as capable as Tarly, and would be more inclined to side with Tyrell, unless we make it clear that we are siding with the dragons.”

Garth looks at Cuy in irritation. “Rowan will not side with Tyrell, the two have had a falling out, and we all know that Mathis Rowan is not his father, he will sit in Goldengrove and do nothing until he is sure of which way the wind blows.”

Lord Cordwayner a young man with a fierce temper speaks then. “Rowan is a fool. The dragons are one way to make things interesting, but they are not the only way. Dorne is looking like a vat of wildfire about to explode. We must make use of that.”

Garth nods in agreement. “I quite agree; I think that Dorne is not being exploited enough. Whatever is happening there, is clearly something that is worrying Tyrell and consequently the King. We must make that part of the reasoning for our push into armament.”

“I am still not sure whether this is wise.” Cuy simpers. “If we go to arms, would Baratheon not think we are trying to rebel for the dragons?”

“If he truly thinks that then he is a fool, and does not deserve the throne he sits on.” Garth snaps.

“Well we know from our sources that the man gives lavishly to those who he likes, but he does not like us for where we are from, because of something that we were not a part of.” Lord Roxton points out. “Perhaps it is time we actually contributed to the paranoia of the man.”

Garth looks at Roxton and asks. “What do you suggest my lord?”

“We raise our banners and our men. Then we make our demands, depending on how the crown, or more importantly how Highgarden responds, we make moves towards Highgarden, before they can try sending anything out, or perhaps if they do, we raise the dragon standard. The standard will draw more lords to our cause, and as such, will make us more appealing. Perhaps the stags will fall and the ways of the world will be restored.”

Garth thinks over this for a moment and then smiles and says. “I quite like that. Return to your estates my lords, summon your men, we ride for war.”


	20. Old Man

**12 th Month of 290 A.C. Volantis**

**Ser Jonothor Darry**

He was getting on in years, Jonothor knew this, could feel it in his bones, winter had come and left them creaking in protest every time he tried to move, and yet he moved through the pain. He was a member of the Kingsguard, he was a knight, and he was a Darry, something like old age would not stop him. He would see the King restored to his rightful throne before he died, even if he had to die to achieve it. Of that he was determined. That was why when word had come from Westeros of an uprising led by Appleton and Roxton, Jonothor had found a small glimmer of hope, hope which had been dashed when their sources within Westeros informed them that the rebels were not rebelling for their true King, but rather to make a statement to the usurper. They could not get involved in that, not yet, not now.

Trying to explain that to the King was proving to be harder than he had thought. “Your Grace, whilst I understand your desire to aid these men, we cannot go sallying forth from here to Westeros. We do not know how the rebellion will progress before we leave, and this news is moons old, for all we know the rebellion could have been crushed by now.”

Jutting his jaw out defiantly, in a manner reminiscent of his father, the King responds. “And if we sit here and do nothing, then the rebellion will definitely founder. You have told me why they are rebelling, and I still believe that if we leave here for Westeros we can make a difference.”

Jonothor sighs. “Your Grace, we do not have the means to sail to Westeros, nor the men to provide strength to this rebellion. Whatever else we might hope for, these lords who are rebelling are ambitious men, they might well just hand you over to the usurper the moment you try to aid them.”

The King looks as if he has just been punched, his face is tight with barely concealed frustration, frustration that leaks into his voice. “Then what? Am I merely supposed to sit here, and watch and wait whilst the usurper’s hold over my kingdom grows stronger? How is that ever going to help me? I need experience Jonothor, I cannot sit here forever.”

Jonothor knows that the King is right, he knows that sooner or later the King will need to move out into the field to gain some actual fighting experience, he knows that the lords of Westeros will not rise for him unless he has that experience, and yet something inside him is protesting sending the King off to fight in this rebellion. He takes a breath and then says. “I understand that Your Grace, but still, surely you can see why going to fight this rebellion might not be the best use of your time. These lords who are rebelling, they did not fight for your family during the rebellion, they merely sat outside Storm’s End and did nothing. They are not rebelling now for any sort of allegiance to you, but rather, because they feel they are owed something. Siding with them, would set a bad precedent.”

The King looks at him for a long moment, his gaze sharp and his eyes narrowed, he reminds Jonothor so much of King Aerys in that moment, that Jonothor feels the old flutter of panic float through him, before he crushes it down. The boy is not his father. The King’s voice is measured and calm when he replies. “So then, what precedent would it set? Why are you so against me aiding lords who clearly have some discontent with the usurper?”

Jonothor shifts slightly, not daring to look the King directly in the eye, but knowing that he will need to give a clear and precise answer to satisfy the man’s question. He takes a deep breath, then responds. “Your Grace, you saw how Raymun’s rebellion ended, there was little to no support there for it. The usurper was able to break it relatively easily. This time around, the people rebelling against the usurper are not lords who are loyal to your cause, or to your family. They are lords who are looking to gain something from rebelling, and such men are never to be relied upon or counted upon. They can change their mind at the drop of a sword.”

“And yet, if I never try to take what is rightfully mine, I will never know if people will rise for me when I do finally return. I must do something before the time comes, otherwise, it will come time, and there will be nothing, nothing for me to get. I must strike now, for now we can try to weaken the usurper on the throne.” The King says.

Jonothor can see the sense in what the King is saying, but there is still a part of him that is wary of going to Westeros to fight in this rebellion. He looks at the King and asks. “Where will you get the men to aid you Your Grace? The lords rebelling will not simply side with you because you are their rightful King. They will need proof that you are someone who can take what is his with force.”

The King opens his mouth to speak, then shuts it, then opens it once more. “The Golden Dragons are nearly complete in their training, they are some five hundred strong, that is surely more than enough to convince these fools?”

Jonothor sighs then, the Golden Dragons, a company the King had founded, so as to have men who were purely loyal to him and him alone. Five hundred men had joined from Volantis, men who were part of old families, and men who were part of the lesser classes of Volantis, come to serve the last dragon, and they were good, Jonothor could admit that, he was not sure whether they were that good though. Still knowing that the King is waiting for his answer, he takes a breath and says. “I suppose they would be Your Grace, but where would you get the ships?”

The King looks at him and smiles. “Why from the good people of Volantis. To put a dragon back on the throne, there is nothing they would not do.”


	21. Huntsman

**4 th Month of 291 A.C. Somewhere in the Reach**

**Lord Randyll Tarly**

The rebels were playing a very clever game, after their initial burst of activity in which they had burned down fields and hurt the tax collectors sent out by the crown and Highgarden, they had disappeared into the mist. Randyll knew that they would not be far from their base of operations, but where that was, was something he was not sure of. That was something that irked him a lot, he needed to know where it was in order to plan properly, but so far, there had been nothing and it was beginning to nag at him. His men were growing tired from the constant riding, Lord Mace, the great oaf was hounding his tail, demanding answers, and Randyll knew that unless he had results, soon enough the crown would get involved. And that was something he did not need, not now, not with the plans he had in place, the plans he needed to keep going, for things to keep working. Tyrell was eating away at the strength of the Reach, and Randyll had not fought as long and as hard as he had done to see it all fall apart at the seams, at the beginning of it all. He would see it last, even if it killed him.

The ground was green and pleasant underneath his horse’s hooves, the air was fresh, and the sky was a clear blue. It was a lovely spring day, but Randyll was sure that there would be an element of darkness before the day was through, perhaps that was just him, but there had long been a sense within him that the Reach was a keg that was getting ready to explode. Ever since Luthor Tyrell had wed Olenna Redwyne, there had been a feeling that something would snap. The uneasy growth the Tyrells had made during the course of their reign over the Reach, was being stalled, Luthor Tyrell had been smart, but his wife was a harridan, someone who only thought in the short term, whilst the man’s son was a fool completely. Randyll had known Lord Luthor, and had admired him, he despised the man’s wife, and hated the son, but he was a lord and he knew his duty. His men moved in quiet behind him, their lances raised and ready for the fight that they all knew was coming. The rebels had to be somewhere here, their horses would be tiring soon enough, and then they would have to stop, even if they had not stopped before.

They moved forwards, and Randyll could have sworn he heard the drawing of a bow, but as he looked around there was nothing there to see, and so shaking his head, he keeps his attention fixed in front of him. Onward they ride, through the grass, long and sharp against their armoured legs, onward they ride, through it all and soon enough, Randyll knows they will be lulled into a false sense of security and that is something they cannot afford. “Gunthor.” He calls out, and as the captain of the guard comes before him he says. “Take twenty men and go scouting ahead. I want to know what the position is before we move forward.” The man nod and rides off. As Randyll watches the man ride off, he feels a sharp sting in his stomach, a sense of nervousness, a sense that all is not well with the world. He shakes his head once more and moves forward, but then stops when hears screams and what sounds like swords being drawn. Before he can summon more men, the whirs of arrows reach him and he turns around in time to see his men being shot down, arrows in their necks and their armour. He bellows a command, demanding his men start looking for where the archers are firing from, but as he does that, more and more of his men are falling.

Randyll growls his frustration then, and throws his lance down, drawing Heartsbane from where it rests against his back, bellowing out. “Come and show yourselves you cowards! Die like real men.” There is no response apart from the constant whirring of arrows that take more and more of his men. Randyll remains rooted to the spot, unable to properly move, feeling a fear he has not felt since he was a boy, it shames him and angers him, but still he finds he cannot move. Eventually the arrows stop, and those of his men who are left are badly wounded and angry. A figure appears then, dressed in grey and black, a scar over one eye, a mad smile adorning their face. “You have failed Randyll.”

Randyll looks at the figure and snarls. “You are dead. I saw you die!”

“What is dead may never die Randyll, you should know that by now. Except, you are going to die, and you will not come back.” The figure responds.

“Then come and do the deed yourself.” Randyll snarls.

“Oh, but I already have.” The figure replies their mad smile growing ever wider.

At that Randyll feels something slick and wet fall down his armour, he looks down and sees blood and something else dripping down him, he looks at it, and then at the figure, who stands there smiling maddeningly. “How?” he asks, or rather croaks.

“I am death. But I am also the one who taught you how to fight Randyll, I know everything about you.” The figure responds.

The arrows are whirring once more, and Randyll can hear his men falling down around him, but his thoughts are blurred and his focus is on the man before him. “My son?” he asks, his son the disappointment.

“Do not worry, your son will be fine. I will see to that. Now die.” the figure responds.

Randyll screams, and then falls silent, killed by the man he knows as the black crow, as  Samwell Tarly.


	22. Say You'll Haunt Me

****

**8 th Month of 291 A.C. King’s Landing**

**Lord Jon Arryn**

Age was creeping into his bones, he was an old man, Jon knew that, had known for a long while that he was an old man. Yet, he had never felt as old as he did now, being Hand of the King was a position he had coveted for a long, long time, but now that he finally had it, he found himself wishing that he did not. Robert was not the King Jon had thought he would be, the boy Jon had raised was more content to drink and whore than to actually rule, on some level Jon knew he was to blame for this. He had encouraged Robert’s more boorish ways out of a desire to exercise greater control over him, but it now seemed that the weight of the kingdoms rested squarely on his shoulders, and he was not as young as he had once been. Somewhere his cousin was laughing at him, laughing at how he had presumed to take power, when his whole life he had wanted it but never reached out. And now, now it seemed as though that power might slip through his fingers, and it was infuriating.

Robert was present for the meeting of the council, and was surprisingly sober for a change. His voice was loud and demanding. “Well? What word has come from the Reach? Has Tyrell managed to deal with those rebels?”

Jon sighs, taking a deep breath before responding. “Lord Tyrell sent Lord Tarly out to deal with the rebels Your Grace, and as such the force that Tarly was commanding was ambushed by rebel forces. The force was slaughtered and Tarly was killed himself.”

He sees Robert’s shoulders slump, his anger clear in his voice. “What happened from there?”

“The rebels managed to gain some ground and as such, Lord Tyrell is marshalling more men to ride out to deal with them. Or at least he was when he wrote his letter. I am not sure what might be happening now.” Jon responds truthfully.

“The fact that the man has only now marshalled his men is somewhat worrying. And telling I think.” Petyr Baelish the new master of coin says.

“How so?” Robert asks, his voice sharp.

“He relied far too much on Lord Tarly, and now that that man is gone, he is scrambling to do something about the threat. He did not take it seriously before now, and I think that might well give the rebels more hope.” Baelish points out.

Jon can see where the man is coming from, and so looking at Robert, who has never really had a nous for tactics says. “Now that Tarly is dead, the best commander in the Reach is gone. The rebels have struck a crucial blow, and if they are smart they will exploit that for all it is worth. I think this might grow into more of an issue.”

That gets Robert’s attention. “You mean to say this rebellion could spread?” there is something close to anger in the man’s voice.

Jon takes a deep breath, unsure of how to exactly respond, perhaps the war might be something good for Robert. “Yes. I think there is a high chance it might well spread. Especially with Viserys Targaryen returning.”

“That runt will not have enough support.” Robert grunts dismissively.

Jon sighs. “We are not sure of that Your Grace. This is not Raymun Darry’s failed uprising, this is the actual Targaryen pretender coming to try and stake his claim. Lord Stannis’s fleet has not been able to find the man’s ships, but I am not sure if they will be able to do much when they do find them.”

At this Robert looks him straight in the eye. “You doubt that Stannis would be able to achieve what needs to be done?”

Jon swallows, takes a nervous breath then speaks. “I think that Lord Stannis might not be experienced enough to deal with the Volanteene fleet that Viserys Targaryen has at his disposal. That Lord Stannis has not yet been able to track them down, I think is indication of this.”

Annoyance and anger are plain across Robert’s face. “What do you suggest be done then?”

Jon takes a breath and then says. “Send word to the Arbor, tell Lord Redwyne to muster the Redwyne fleet. If any fleet can defeat the Volanteene fleet, it is that one.”

Robert looks as if the mere thought of asking Redwyne for help is repulsive to him, and truth be told Jon cannot blame him. Eventually the man nods, and begrudgingly says. “Very well, Pycelle send word to the Arbor, I want those ships mustered and ready to set sail before the moon is over.”

Jon sees Pycelle nod, and then he speaks. “You might also consider sending word to the Rock Your Grace. Should this rebellion spread, Lord Tywin will be most useful in helping in dealing with it.” _And he owes me, after what happened during the Sack._

Robert grunts. “Of course.” A moment of silence passes and then Robert stands. “Well if that is all, then I am heading out.” With that they all stand and bow their heads as Robert walks out of the room accompanied by Ser Barristan Selmy.

Once the King has left, the rest of them remain there, uncertain of what to do. He is not surprised when Baelish comes to him and says. “I have got some information for you my lord Hand.”

Jon is grateful that the man is whispering, for he can tell Pycelle and Varys are listening. “What is it?” he asks the young man.

“The lions are making their moves tonight. Soon they intend to have the city painted red.” Baelish responds.

Jon thinks over this for a moment and then says. “Very well, have the falcons ready for that. We cannot allow them to move. And have the gold cloaks ready.”

“Yes my lord hand.” Baelish responds, a pause and then. “Where will you be?”

“With the King.” Jon says before he walks out of the room.


	23. King For A Day

**12 th Month of 291 A.C. Stepstones**

**King Viserys III Targaryen**

He had donned armour that was black as night, with rubies glimmering in the breast plate, his brother had worn armour like that before he had gone to the Trident, Viserys remembered. He remembered thinking how much he wanted armour like that, and now he had it. He wore the crown of King Jaehaerys the Conciliator, the crown that had brought peace to Westeros, but brought war as well. He wielded a sword, not Blackfyre, but a sword that was big, almost bigger than he was, he wielded it with two hands. Viserys had said goodbyes to Jon and Dany, kissing both of them on their cheeks and promising them that he would come home, that they would come home. Rhaegar had made him a promise like that once, and Rhaegar had not kept it, Viserys was determined to keep his promise, he was not Rhaegar, and he would show these people that. Rhaegar had fought a Stag and died, Viserys would not fight a Stag and die, he would win. The words of a song his mother used to sing to him when he was a babe had come to him as he had departed. He was the Last Dragon, just as the Giant Mag was the last of the giants, and together they would reclaim their land, their throne. He hummed the song now, as his heart hammered in his chest.

The Volanteene fleet or part of it anyway had come with them, some one hundred war galleys taking with them Viserys golden dragons-men he was convinced would prove the difference- as well as provisions and some twelve thousand men from Volantis and its strongholds. Viserys looked up and felt a lot of pride at the sight of Three Headed Dragon of his house flying proudly in the air, across the waves, he could see the Stag of the usurper flying in the air. He grits his teeth, and listens to the roar of the waves, to the barking of the captains, and he smiles to himself. The song grows stronger in his head, the song to calm his nerves, he begins singing it then, not in key, not like Rhaegar, but he sings it all the same, and he hears the men on his ship sing it as well. Ooooh I am the last of the giants, my people are gone from the earth, the last of the great mountain giants, who ruled all the world at my birth. The words are sung, with pride, with honour, he knows it is a silly thing to do, but the men are smiling, they are not grim now. Even old Ser Jonothor, dressed in his dark Kingsguard armour and white cloak is smiling.

The world shifts and changes, and soon enough the captain of the ship comes to him. “We are within range Your Grace. What do you wish for us to do?”

Viserys takes a moment to think over this, and then he says. “Fire.”

The captain nods and gives the order, Viserys listens as it is passed down the chain of command, and he watches intently as the men place arrows and rocks into ballistae and trebuchets respectively. He watches as they count down to three before firing them at the enemy ships. The enemy ships do the same, and Viserys feels the ship rock slightly at the sound of all of this hitting the waves. He steels himself, says a prayer to the Warrior, and then he draws his sword into both his hands. The battle begins not with a roar, but a thump. The enemy comes near, and soon they are boarding the enemy ship, swinging their swords, bellowing oaths, and demanding retribution. His heart hammers in his chest, he remembers his lessons and keeps swinging his sword, through it all. The first man he kills goes down with a scream and a splutter, and Viserys pushes on, blinking blood out of his face, his helm somewhere far away.

His sword is wet with blood, his armour is covered in it as well as the salt of the water, he can feel his arms beginning to ache, but he still moves forward, one foot in front of the other. He will not die like Rhaegar did, with his chest caved in, he will not leave Jon and Dany to fend for themselves, not like Rhaegar left Aegon and Rhaenys-Rhaenys, the girl who was his friend and his companion- he will keep fighting, through the pain. Men come toward him, and either he cuts them down, or Ser Jonothor and Ser Willam do. The two men who have helped him, who have fought for him at every step moving in perfect motion together. The Golden Dragons are there as well, fighting like men possessed, he supposes they are truth be told. The fighting continues, his arms ache, his chest is soar, but still they move on, not daring to stop in case something goes wrong. All around him are the sounds of battle, men fighting, men screaming in pain, crying out for loved ones who will never hear them again. It is a horrific sight, and if he were anyone else, Viserys knows he would flinch from it, but he is not, he is the King, these men are looking to him, to help guide them through this, and he will not flinch. He is not Rhaegar. He keeps going, swinging his sword, cutting men down, wounding them, and getting wounded in return.

The roar of battle is all engulfing, Viserys and his men move from one ship to the next, fighting all those who come toward them. Viserys’ heart is hammering, and he feels something akin to exhilaration running through him. Something about this he likes, something about this is something he can do again and again, it thrills him and terrifies him in equal measure. Still they fight and fight, and then something happens, the world goes still for a moment, as Viserys sees some cunt shove his sword through a gap in Ser Willam’s armour, the old wolf falling down, blood spurting through. Viserys yells for the man to get back up, but the man does not respond, he does not respond to his King, and grief and anger run through Viserys. He kills the bastard responsible and kills everyone who comes near him then. Bodies lie piled around him, or fall over board, as the battle comes to a slow end, a man is brought before him, black of hair and blue of eye. Viserys looks at the man and growls. “Who are you?”

“Stannis Baratheon, Lord of Dragonstone.” The man responds.

Viserys remembers hearing about this man, remembers that this was the man who drove him from Dragonstone, who killed his mother. He grits his teeth, anger running through him. His sword is raised. “Lean over traitor.” He growls, Baratheon leans forward, offering his neck. Viserys hears his mother’s screams, and her words to him as she died, and he swings the sword. Baratheon’s head goes rolling onto the deck of the ship. He looks at it and says. “Mount that to the front of the ship.” He walks away, anger and grief, and fear running through him.


	24. A King

**2 nd Month of 292 A.C. King’s Landing**

**King Robert I Baratheon**

The fact that the traitors had rebelled against him was something he was still finding difficult to understand.  Robert had not been cruel to them, he had not taken their lands from them or taken hostages, even though they had sided with the dragons during the war. He had been kind to them, generous even, and how had they repaid him? BY rebelling, and by casting aspersions against him and his family. That was not something he could forgive, that was most definitely not something he could forget. He had commanded Tyrell to deal with them, and from what word he had received Tyrell had, which was somewhat of a shame as far as he was concerned, he had been looking forward to swinging his hammer and crushing those fools. And then there was the Targaryen boy, Rhaegar’s brother, who had dared don armour to come and challenge him, Robert almost wanted the boy to land so that he could crush him as he had crushed Rhaegar.

Robert looks at his Hand, Jon Arryn, the man who was more like a father to him than his own father. He looks at him and asks. “Well, what word from Highgarden? Did Tyrell do as I asked of him?”

Jon nods. “He has Your Grace. The heads of the rebel houses are dead as are their families.”

Robert grunts in acknowledgement, feeling something akin to satisfaction but also revulsion in him at that. “It had to be done, didn’t it Jon?” he asks, seeking reassurance. “They could not be allowed to live after their treachery.”

“Of course not Your Grace. You showed leniency with Darry and Cafferen and they fled to join the dragons. Had you kept these traitors alive, they would have merely done the same.” Jon responds soothingly.

Robert nods. “And what will happen to their lands and their castles?” He already knows all of this, but he needs confirmation, just so that his soul will rest easy at night.

“Their seats belong to the crown now Your Grace. Their lands and incomes belong to the crown now as well. And will remain under the crown’s possession until you decide otherwise.” Jon responds.

Robert nods, feeling some of his nerves soothed by this. “What has the reaction been to all of this in the Reach?”

At this Jon shifts slightly, looking a bit uncomfortable. Robert wonders at this, but knows not to push, knowing as he does that Jon will tell him. And so he does. His voice is soft when he replies. “The Tyrells are quite happy with what has happened, they are relieved that rebellious bannermen have been dealt with in a manner that means they cannot trouble them anymore. The Hightowers remain neutral and inexpressive at this time. The Tarlys are glad that they have gotten revenge, their new Lord is but a boy. As for the Rowans, they are somewhat angered, but remain silent.”

Robert acknowledges this with a grunt, before asking. “Who is ruling in the name of the boy Tarly?”

“His mother Your Grace. A Florent by birth.” Jon replies a slight smirk on his face.

Robert laughs at that. “Well now isn’t that something, no doubt her family are crowding into Horn Hill to help. Tyrell will not be happy about that.”

“Indeed not Your Grace.” Jon replies smiling, before his expression changes. “There has been word from the Stepstones Your Grace.”

Robert straightens then, noticing how serious Jon sounds, he feels a fluttering in his stomach, similar to how he felt when word had come of yet another stillbirth in Storm’s End. He takes a deep breath and asks. “What word?”

Jon Arryn swallows and then replies. “There was a battle, the Volanteene fleet against the royal fleet. The Volanteene fleet and the Royal Fleet both sustained heavy damage, and there were losses on both sides. Ser Willam Darry was the most notable casualty it seems on the dragon side,” Robert sighs at that. “And on our side, your brother, Lord Stannis was killed.”

Robert hears the words, but it takes him a long time to actually process them, to understand what is being said, he looks at Jon, looking for some sign that the man is jesting, because Stannis cannot be dead, not the fool who lasted for a whole year during the Siege of Storm’s End through sheer will. That man cannot be gone. Robert looks at Jon Arryn and asks. “Are you certain?”

Jon looks at him with something akin to sympathy in his eyes, and Robert hates him for it. “I am Your Grace. I am sorry.”

“How did he die?” Robert asks, wondering why this has hit him so hard, he has never really liked Stannis, but the man was still his brother, and for him to be gone, by the gods that does not seem right.

Jon looks slightly worried at this, but replies all the same. “He was beaten and taken prisoner, and then presented before the Targaryen pretender. The pretender asked him who he was, then he beheaded him.”

The words hit him hard, as if someone had swung his Warhammer at him and hit him in his chest. It hits him really hard, and he slumps slightly in his chair, he looks at Jon, wanting it to be a lie, feeling something akin to despair grow through him, whilst something akin to anger develops as well. “The dragonspawn killed him?” he asks.

“Yes Your Grace.” Jon replies looking at him carefully.

“Where is the dragonspawn now?” Robert asks, rage filling his voice.

“The weather went against him Your Grace; it seems that the Volanteene admirals did not want to risk attacking with the weather as bad as it was. Furthermore, they lost a lot of men during the fighting. They had to turn back.” Jon Arryn responds.

Robert snorts. “So he is not returning here then?”

“No Your Grace.” Jon replies.

Robert considers this for a moment, and then says. “Very well. Leave me now.” Jon nods and bows low before walking out of the room, Robert waits for a moment and then he takes a cup of wine and downs it in one.


	25. Boy

**2 nd Month of 293 A.C. Volantis**

**Prince Jon Targaryen**

Volantis was hot during the summer, and even though he was a dragon, Jon found the heat to be somewhat unbearable. His uncle and aunt didn’t seem to mind it, or at least he knew his uncle, the King didn’t, but Dany, she seemed to vary. Volantis was an interesting place, it was filled with history and so much to do, Jon had done much of the sightseeing during his time here, but always behind The Black Wall, never in front of it, because that was where the usurper and his spies might seek to find them ad harm them. The usurper, the man was nothing more than a name to him, but after the King had tried to take back the throne, the usurper’s name had become even more reviled. The usurper’s brother had died during that war, as had Ser Willam Darry, Jon missed the old man, he could be stern, but he could also be kind as well, and he had made mother laugh, something that did not always happen. Jon loved his family, and he yearned for the day they would no longer need to hide, for when they could emerge from the shadows to fight. He would fight alongside his uncle then; he’d fight for what was theirs.

It was that thought that made him focus back to attention at the lesson that Haldon Half-Maester was giving him and Dany. “The Dance of Dragons started because of the greed and ambition of one man and his mother. Prince Aegon and Queen Alicent were very ambitious and sought to rob Princess Rhaenyra of her birth right.”

“Why?” Dany asks. “Why would they do something like that?”

Jon speaks then before the half-maester can answer. “Because they believed that they were entitled to the throne.” He breathes a sigh of relief that he has been able to say the word throne without it sounding silly. He has trouble sometimes.

“That is right my prince.” Haldon replies nodding his head in agreement. “Queen Alicent had long tried to convince her husband, King Viserys, to name his son by her as his heir. But King Viserys was stubborn and refused to do so. Even when he fell out with his daughter, he continued to insist that she was his heir, no matter what.”

Jon considers this, his mind trying to process this information. “But didn’t you say before that King Viserys himself became King due to the decision of a Great Council? Which overlooked his cousin Princess Rhaenys because she was a woman?”

At this the half-maester shifts uncomfortable. “Yes, yes it did.”

“Then why was the King so determined to overlook that very fact and name his daughter his heir, even when he had a son, or sons from his second marriage?” Jon questions.

The Half-Maester looks slightly unsure of how to respond then, but eventually replies. “The King was the King, my prince, he was the very basis for the laws. And whilst the Great Council had named him as the heir to the Old King, the Old King still had to confirm that choice, had he not done so, there was nothing any of the lords could do. For the King’s word is law, and it is final.”

Jon thinks over this, and then asks. “So he was hoping to use that fact to make sure that he got his way, even when everyone else had to abide by the rule of the firstborn son coming before a daughter?” the thought seems absurd, but they are dragons, and they are above the laws of men.

“Yes my prince. The King was in the right of it. Princess Rhaenyra had been raised to rule from the time she could walk and talk. Prince Aegon was a lech who did nothing but drink and whore, he would have made a terrible King.” The half-maester replies.

Jon considers this, trying to get round this fact, and then he asks. “Why did half the realm rise for Prince Aegon then, if he was that incompetent.”

“Because they were traitors.” Says a voice that is not the half-maester, Jon turns and sees his uncle, the King standing there, dressed in the red and black of their house. He stands, as does Dany, he bows, whilst Dany curtseys. The King strides into the room and looks at the half-maester once before turning to look at Jon and Dany. “They were traitors who put their own ambition before their duty to the throne, to what was right. And we all know what happens when such a thing happens.”

“The realm bleeds.” Jon and Dany echo together.

“Exactly.” Viserys replies smiling at them, causing something akin to pride to flutter in his chest. “I think that is enough for now Haldon,” the King says turning to the half-maester. “I would speak to my nephew and sister alone.” The half-maester bows and then walks out of the room. Once he is gone, the King turns to look at them and says. “So tell me, where would you like to go this evening.”

Jon feels a flutter of excitement then, he always likes going on these little excursions with his uncle, where his uncle gets to be his uncle, and not the imperious King that he often is. Jon looks at Dany and then asks. “Could we go to the Dragon room?” the dragon room, a place where the words of the dragonlords are kept, where their decisions and rules were stored during the fall.

The King looks at him a moment before looking at Dany. “Do you wish to go there sister?”

“Yes, please.” Dany replies shyly.

The King nods, and says. “Very well, that is where we shall go.” A moment passes and then softly Viserys speaks once more. “After that we shall have something more to do.” Without saying anything more, Viserys winks at them and then walks out of the room, leaving Jon and Dany to murmur to themselves about what else they could have to do.


	26. Little Wolf

**4 th Month of 294 A.C. Pentos**

**Benjen Stark**

Pentos was quieter compared to Volantis, there was less activity, less hustle and bustle around the city. Something that was to be expected, Pentos depended on trade, and with Braavos so close by, trade had slowly been lessening over the years. That was something, Benjen was convinced was the reason for Pentos’s growing hostility with the Iron Throne, and once more he found himself marvelling at the stupidity of Robert Baratheon and Jon Arryn, and how Ned could ever have thought they were good men. They were ruining Westeros, and Benjen knew that another few years of them, and things would not go so well. That was why his role here was so important, to come and speak with Illyrio Mopatis, one of their contacts within the city that was convinced things would change for the better for the King. Benjen did not really like the man, he missed Raymun, but he knew he needed to be here, for his King, for them all, and so he was here, and he resisted the urge to barf when the man came in, smelling of oil and dampness. Benjen nods to the man and watches him sit down, watches him as he places his hands onto his stomach.

The man speaks and his voice is filled with the sort of softness that Benjen has come to associate with Essosi spies. “Lord Benjen, a pleasure, it truly is a pleasure to have you here once more. I trust your travels were well, and that the accommodations are to your liking?”

Benjen nods. “Indeed they are, and they were fine thank you magister.”

The man nods. “Ah that is good, that is good. And how are the King and his family?”

“They are well magister. They are healthy and preparing for their return to their rightful home.” Benjen responds truthfully.

The magister smiles. “That is good, that is very good.” the man pauses and Benjen wonders what he will say next, before he has time to form a properly coherent thought, the man speaks once more. “There has been word from our friend in King’s Landing.” Another pause and Benjen leans forward then. “It appears that the usurper has grown ever more bitter since the attempted return of the throne to its rightful owner. As I am sure you are aware, he named Paxter Redwyne to the Small Council as master of ships, but continues to irritate that man, through his veiled slights. The Royal Fleet has developed once more, but not to the level that it once was, Redwyne has done as we asked him to do.”

Benjen digests this information and then asks. “And what of the Spider himself, what role has he played in sowing the seeds of discontent?”

Here the magister shifts slightly, and though he tries to hide it, there is a look of panic on his face briefly. “Our friend, the spider has done his role to perfection my lord. There are those within King’s Landing who remember what life was like under the dragons, who remember how things were better when the dragons ruled. The Spider has reminded them of that fact, and has told them what they can expect if they are to prepare for the return in the manner in which we have agreed.”

“That is good, very good.” Benjen responds. He takes a moment to think through this information, before eventually saying. “And what of the Lannisters and the Arryns, they are the two pillars holding the usurper up on his throne. How are they dealing with one another?”

At this the magister smiles a cat like smile. “The fighting that took place between Lannister and Arryn men has happened on three different occasions now my lord. On all three occasions the Lannister men have emerged triumphant, and have even gone on to state that the Arryn men were the ones who started the fight.”

“And the usurper has believed them?” Benjen asks, trying to keep the surprise from his voice.

The magister laughs. “Of course he has. His Queen has him wrapped around her little finger. The man has no balls, and nothing but a care for drinking and whoring. He will believe whatever she tells him to believe, so long as she leaves him alone.”

 _Thank the Gods you got away when you did Lyanna._ Benjen thinks to himself. Aloud he responds. “Well we knew that the man would not make a good King when he did not have to fight for something. But this, this is quite something. How has Lord Arryn handled this?”

The Magister chuckles once more. “Oh as badly as someone might think an old man like him would handle something such as that. But there is naught he can do about it, he is the Hand of the King and so he must respect the King’s wishes. I do know that he has begun looking for reasons with which to bring about the end of Lannister dominance at court, but I do not think he has found much.”

Benjen hums at that. “Very well, and what of Dragonstone? What has happened there since that man Stannis died?”

At this the Magister grows grim. “It would appear that the Lannisters have gotten their claws into Dragonstone as well. One Kevan Lannister, has taken over governorship of the castle, whilst the usurper’s niece Shireen has become a ward of the court. The girl’s mother, has been married to a Lannister, one of Lord Tywin’s brothers or cousins or some such. The Florents are flocking to court as well, much to the Tyrells disapproval.”

“Robert continues to make more and more enemies then with his careless actions.” Benjen muses.

“Oh, these are not the actions of Robert Baratheon. No these are the actions of his Hand.” The Magister replies.

“Why would Jon Arryn aid the Lannisters growing power, if he has been fighting them?” Benjen asks aloud.

At this the Magister smiles a wicked smile. “Because he owes Tywin Lannister a great favour.”

“A favour? What sort of favour?” Benjen asks.

At this the magister’s smile grows wider. “The Sack of King’s Landing my lord.”


	27. Lions Without Claws

**1 st Month of 295 A.C. King’s Landing**

**Ser Jaime Lannister**

They had come very close to seeing the dragons restored on the throne. Jaime had been there when word had come of the Targaryens sailing from Volantis, and he had felt as if he was being torn in two. There was a part of him that wanted the dragons to return, so that he could make amends for his failings. And there was a larger part of him that did not want them to return, knowing as he did that it would mean the end of Cersei and her children, but mainly that Cersei would die should the dragons come back. As such he had breathed a sigh of relief when word had come that the dragons had had to return, and he had felt terribly guilty about that afterwards. For many moons he had fought the urge to speak, to go to the place where it was hidden, the thing that reminded him of who he was, but he had not gone there, had not gone there since the Sack. It was not safe to go there, and so he had remained away from it. Other things had come to attention, he had led the Lannister forces in dealing with Arryn men, had won more power for his family at court, all the while feeling as though he was losing a part of himself.

It was all being done for love, for Cersei. He looks at her now, sat across from him, looking absolutely divine in her crimson dress, and he asks her. “What has you so worried sister? You look as if someone has told you, that you cannot be Queen anymore.”

He means it as a joke, but Cersei looks at him with anger in her eyes. “That’s because I might not yet be Queen for much longer.”

That surprises Jaime. “What do you mean?” he asks. “Robert would never dare think of setting you aside, not now you’ve given him two sons and a daughter. And besides, father is there to remind him of what he stands to lose.”

Cersei huffs slightly. “Nothing like that. But Volantis has a King now.”

The words hit him hard, and it takes him a long moment to truly process what she has said. “Who?” he asks, though he thinks he already knows the answer to that.

“Some Balquo Maegyr. The man who leads the Tigers. It seems he staged a coup and removed the Triarchy, and instead declared himself King with assistance from the army of Volantis.” Cersei responds, her voice filled with fear.

Jaime takes her hand then and squeezes reassuringly, even if the words he says aren’t. “And Maegyr is the one who took the dragons in isn’t he?”

“Yes.” His sister replies. “And he has been quite vocal apparently, about restoring them to the throne. It seems that he thinks by doing so he is restoring balance to the world.”

“Restoring balance to the world?” Jaime asks nonplussed.

“He thinks that dragons are the only ones who can rule Westeros, none else.” Cersei replies.

“Ah.” Jaime replies seeing what his sister is saying, Aerys had been like that, so had he once, indeed, he thinks he still is like that. Robert had made a mess of things. “And what has Robert said to this?”

Cersei snorts. “Nothing. He rants and rages, but he does nothing. Volantis is far too powerful for us to take on alone.”

Jaime sighs then. “Aye, and from what I can gather, there seems to be a lack of resolve amongst the council to actually do something about Viserys as well.”

Cersei looks at him intently. “What do you mean?” she asks.

Jaime takes a moment to think through everything he had heard, and then he says. “From what I have heard and gathered, it seems that the council thinks that Viserys will not be able to gather enough support within Westeros to make an invasion even worth considering. After all, he left for Volantis before even trying to land in Westeros last time. That and the fact that Volantis would be his main supporter would make him seem like a foreigner trying to take over. I think the council are hoping that feeling is enough.”

Cersei seems to be considering this quite intently. “They have a valid, argument, but they forget one thing.”

Jaime looks at her and asks. “Oh, and what might that be?”

At this Cersei’s face becomes something akin to a snarl. “Dorne. Dorne has never come to terms with Robert’s reign, and indeed, from what we know, they are growing ever more powerful, more and more prepared for the fight to come. Viserys Targaryen will go to Dorne if he is smart, and he has more to offer them, than we do.”

“I do not think Dorne has enough strength to trouble us though. They lost a lot of men on the Trident.” Jaime points out, trying to ignore the fact that one of his heroes was amongst the dead.

“That does not matter. Should Dorne rally to Viserys, then you can be sure others will consider doing so.” Cersei says.

Jaime ponders this for a moment, and then replies. “I disagree. Dorne has made themselves unpopular within the realm, by being so open about their discontent. And whilst there might be those who would support Viserys, who are not within Dorne, should Dorne declare for him, I think they might choose not to. For no other reason than Dorne has and always has been a sinking ship. They are finished. And I think they know that.”

Cersei looks at him with something akin to surprise in her eyes. “You know you sound a lot like father then.”

Jaime feels his heart lurch slightly at her words, a conversation from long ago coming to the forefront of his mind, but he pushes that down. Plastering a grin onto his face, he responds. “Well that is good to know. Now shall we stop with this talking?” Cersei smiles then and they move forward, meeting one another in the middle, their lips pressed to one another. Plots and dragons forgotten for now. Though a small part of him remembers her words, and worries.


	28. She Wolf

****

**6 th Month of 296 A.C. Volantis**

**Princess Lyanna Targaryen nee Stark**

Volantis was hot and stuffy, she did not like it one bit, she missed the cold draft of Winterfell, with the air and the breeze, and the summer snows. She missed home, but she also knew that the chances of her ever returning to Winterfell were small. Ned thought she was dead, and likely would never want to see her if he knew the truth, if he knew her lies, and the part she had played in their father and brother’s deaths. And besides, Jon and Dany needed her, they were thirteen and twelve namedays old respectively, but they were still her children, and she needed to be there for them both. Furthermore, there was something developing between her and Ser Desmond, the man was rough and tough, and there was most definitely some form of attraction between them, but what it was she was not sure, it had developed slowly, but it was there. After everything that had happened with Rhaegar, Lyanna had been unsure of whether or not she wanted to try her heart again, but slowly and surely it had been freed, and that was something of a relief she had to say, it really was.

Shaking her head to clear her thoughts, she looks at the man before her, King Viserys Targaryen, the third of his name, tall, proud, and arrogant, he would make a good King of that Lyanna was certain. The man sat before her and when he speaks his voice is soft but commanding. “Tell me Lyanna, how are my nephew and sister progressing do you think? Will they make a good prince and a good princess, when the time comes?”

Lyanna finds the question odd, but knows how she is supposed to answer. “Yes, I would think so Your Grace. They know their history, and they know how they are supposed to act and behave, I think they will make fine representatives of the House.”

Lyanna sees the King nod in approval then and feels a slight flutter of irritation, before pushing it down. Silence falls for some time afterwards as well, as they take one another in, Lyanna has always felt as if she has to prove something to the man sitting in front of her, more so than to anyone else. The King, the man with the weight of the world on his shoulders, a weight she helped put there, she feels guilty for that, but she would not want that weight on her son’s shoulders, ever. Eventually, the silence is broken and the King speaks. “Tell me Lyanna, what do you make of Melisandre?”

The question surprises Lyanna, Melisandre, a red witch who had come from Asshai supposedly, though they all doubt that, she had come and tried to integrate herself in with them, but the King had kept her at an arm’s length, not removing her, but not using her either. Lyanna thinks over the question and then replies. “I think she is dangerous.”

The King’s head tilts to the side as he considers her and her answer, and once more, Lyanna feels as if she is being examined. “And what makes you say that?”

Lyanna wonders if the King is merely testing her, surely he cannot be serious about that question, it should be fairly obvious why the woman is dangerous, and yet still she responds. “Because she has a power that we cannot understand, and she can do things that no person should be able to do.” She shudders slightly as she thinks of the display of fire that the woman had given them once as a test of her powers.

The King nods as if in agreement with her, something that surprises her. “I agree; I think there is more to her than meets the eye. But as of yet, she has done nothing that would warrant me removing her head from her body.” Lyanna looks at the King and wonders briefly, if the man is sleeping with the red witch, it would not surprise her overtly much, but she thinks the King has more sense than that. Eventually the King continues. “I know we have not always had the best relationship Lyanna. When I was younger I did not know how to feel about you. You were the girl my brother absconded with, and I blamed you for a lot, and I blamed him. But now, now I think we can reach an understanding.”

“Your Grace?” she questions.

The King looks at her then, some unknown expression on his face. “Tell me Lyanna, what is your deepest desire? What do you want more than anything else in this world?”

She knows that perhaps she should say something about her children being safe and sound, but right now, that is not what she wants, what she wants is…” To go home.”

She expects the King to laugh, to sneer at her, she knows his brother would have done so, but instead he surprises her by merely nodding. “And where is home to you?”

It is an obvious question, but one she needs to vocalise an answer to. “Winterfell, Your Grace.”

The King nods. “Then you will be happy to know that I am going to be sending you, Jon and Lord Benjen to Winterfell very soon.”

“Your Grace?” Lyanna asks unsure if she heard properly, and barely daring to believe.

“You heard correctly Lyanna, you shall be going to Winterfell. The north is the largest of my kingdoms and I need the Starks on my side. Who better to convince Lord Eddard than his family? You will go home, and you will bring your brother to my side.” The King responds.

Lyanna wonders if such a thing is possible, she remembers how ready to defend Robert, Ned had been at Winterfell and again at Harrenhal, but she wonders if her return from the dead might be enough to convince him to change sides. She thinks over it and then says. “I will do as you ask Your Grace, when do we leave?”

The King looks at her and says. “In a moon’s time.”


	29. Young Dragon

**1 st Month of 297 A.C. Winterfell**

**Prince Jon Targaryen**

It had taken them some time to get to Winterfell, they had had to be careful sailing around the Stepstones and the crownlands as well as the Vale, places that were loyal to the usurper. Eventually they had reached White Harbour, a big city on the western coast of the north, where they had been feasted and treated specially, before moving onto Winterfell. Jon liked Winterfell, it was strong, the people were strong and welcoming, and for once he had the superior rank over everyone, that was nice. The Starks themselves were interesting, Lord Eddard, the Lord of Winterfell was a solemn person who rarely smiled, Lady Catelyn was charming and beautiful, their son Robb was nice and cheery, and Jon liked him a lot. The others were not really worth his notice as young as they were. He enjoyed learning his lessons with Robb and sparring with him, indeed they had just finished sparring, and Jon could feel the sweat pouring down his face, that Robb sparred with a wooden sword was something of a surprise, King Viserys had said as a dragon he should spar with live steel as soon as possible, still he said nothing on it for now.

Jon looks at his cousin and asks. “So what do you normally do after you’ve finished training?”

His cousin wipes sweat from his brow, a handsome young man he really is. “Well normally I just help around the castle, doing stuff that needs to be done. Nothing exciting. How about yourself my prince?”

Jon knows he probably should say something about his cousin not calling him by his title, but he finds he quite likes it, so instead he says. “I help the King look over some of the correspondence he gets from his allies, as well as help around the manse.”

Robb looks interested at that. “What sort of correspondence does the King get?” that Robb says the word King so easily is soothing to Jon, at least one Stark knows the true order.

Jon thinks over the question for a moment, debating just how much to tell his cousin, eventually he decides on telling him something of a bare minimum. “Well, letters from lords here who want to assure the King of their loyalty, and that they are working for his gain. Letters from people who remember what the realm was like when the dragons ruled. And letters from people who simply wish to speak with the King.”

He sees a strange look cross Robb’s face then and wonders at it, but before he can question his cousin on the look, his cousin asks. “What is the King like?”

Jon does not even have to think of his response, when he replies. “He is good, strong, kind and determined. He will make a far better King than the usurper who sits the throne or his children. He knows what it is to work for something, and he will cherish every moment that he sits the throne, unlike the man who sits it currently.”

He can see that Robb seems uncertain on this, something that is confirmed when his cousin hesitantly asks. “Who is he more like, my prince?”

“What do you mean?” Jon asks, though he thinks he knows and that irritates him slightly.

Robb swallows nervously, before asking. “Is he like the Mad King, or Prince Rhaegar?”

Jon feels a prickle of anger then, the Mad King? Pah, whilst Jon’s grandfather had certainly suffered from something, Jon knew his own father had suffered from delusions, the King was not like anything he had heard used to describe those two people. And so he shakes his head. “No, he is his own man. I do not think he would be anything like those two.”

Robb seems disappointed then, and Jon cannot understand that. His cousin’s voice is soft when he speaks. “I… I hope you do not take this the wrong way my prince, but why have you come here? What do you want to gain from this?”

Jon is surprised by the question, and it takes him a few moments to come up with what he’d consider a satisfactory response. “We are here to meet you and the rest of your family. We are kin, you and I, and I think the time is right for us to try and forge an alliance, things happened in the past that cannot be undone, but there is no reason we cannot try again, and try to do things right.”

His cousin seems sceptical at this, and it shows in his tone when he replies. “But why have you waited for so long to come? How are we supposed to react when you show up now, without a word of warning?”

Jon grits his teeth then trying to hold back some element of rage that has appeared inside of him, taking a breath he responds. “Be honest with me Robb, have you ever interacted with the Baratheons? Have you ever been south?”

Robb looks confused at the line of questioning, before shaking his head. “No, I have not.”

“Why do you think that is?” Jon asks, fighting to keep his voice calm.

“I do not know; father never seems to want to go south.” Robb responds.

Jon sighs. “Exactly, do you honestly think that the Baratheons would welcome you in the south? They are Lannister dogs now; they would do anything to harm you or those who threaten your power. Tell me, what justice did you ever get for the murders of Lord Rickard and his son Brandon? Whilst, the King cannot dig up his father or his brother to reprimand them for their actions, he can give the north what the Baratheons have not given them. He can give them justice, power and positions at court, enough to rival those who laugh at the north. Tell me you do not want that?”

He can tell he’s won his cousin over by the look in his cousin’s eyes, and the hunger in Robb’s voice when he replies. “Yes, I do.”


	30. Wolf of Winter

**1 st Month of 297 A.C. Winterfell**

**Princess Lyanna Targaryen nee Stark**

Being back in Winterfell was nice, it had been good to be home, seeing that the castle had not changed was comforting as it was frustrating. Her brother’s wife was nice, if a bit too tight for Lyanna’s liking, the children were sweet, but nothing more, she was grateful that Jon got along with her brother’s oldest son and heir, that would be important. Of course, as time progressed, Lyanna got the feeling that her brother was desperate for them to leave, he didn’t say it, but Lyanna could see it in the way he looked at her and her son. Ned had been surprised, and then happy that she was alive, that they had come, but now there was an element of fear in her brother’s eyes, that Lyanna could understand. But she had come with a goal in mind and she would not leave until she had gotten an answer from her brother, no matter what hurt it caused her. It was just the three of them in Ned’s solar, what had once been their father’s solar, she, Ned and Benjen all sat around the lord’s table looking at one another, waiting for one of them to speak.

Deciding to be the one to instigate the conversation, Lyanna speaks. “Thank you for hosting us Ned. It has been nice to be able to enjoy some of the comforts of home.”

She sees something flash in her brother’s eyes before he replies. “I am glad.”

Still curious as to what she saw in her brother’s eyes, Lyanna presses on. “I am sure you are aware of why we are here, and where we have come from. I think the time has come for us to discuss that.”

She sees Ned stiffen. “Very well.” He replies shortly.

Lyanna feels frustration boil through her. but she pushes on regardless. “King Viserys has bid me tell you that he is willing to accept the crimes his father and brother committed, and forgive your part in the War of the Usurper as being just. He also promises that you will get your chance at dealing with the Kingslayer and Tywin Lannister, for he knows that you have grief with them.” At this her brother looks at Benjen, and something passes over his face that she cannot quite judge, she shakes her head and continues. “In return, he asks that when he returns to Westeros and plants his banner, that you call your banners and ride to war for him.”

A long silence follows her statement, and as the silence drags on Lyanna begins shifting impatiently, wondering why her brother is taking so long to respond. When he does finally respond, his words are measured and careful. “So in return for pardoning me and my involvement in a war that was fair and just, your King wants me to fight for him against a man I consider a friend and a brother, a man I helped put on the throne. I must say, your King has stones.”

Before Lyanna can speak, Benjen speaks, his tone harsh. “He is the rightful King, Ned.”

“Well, from what you have told me, Jon is the rightful King. He is Prince Rhaegar’s only surviving son, and Rhaegar was Aerys firstborn son. So why are you not here to ask me to fight for your boy Lyanna?” her brother asks.

Lyanna takes a moment to consider her brother’s question, before she replies. “Because King Aerys named King Viserys as his heir before his death. The King’s word is law Ned; we both know that. Jon is a prince, nothing more. Viserys is the rightful King, and we serve him.”

“Viserys is also the son of the Mad King. Jon is the son of Prince Rhaegar.” Ned points out.

“King Viserys is nothing like his father, or his brother. He is a true dragon.” Benjen says.

Ned doesn’t seem to hear their brother, for he stares at Lyanna and asks her. “Why did you run with him?”

“With who”? Lyanna asks though she knows who he means.

“Rhaegar. Why did you run with him? I thought you were going to give Robert a chance. You ran away with a married man when you despised Robert for having a betrothal.” Ned states.

Lyanna looks at her brother stunned and then she replies. “I was a naïve little girl Ned. I did something on the spur of the moment.”

“Did you regret it? When you learned of father and Brandon? Did you regret running away with the Prince? Her brother asks.

“Ned…” Benjen says, but Lyanna cuts him off with a raised hand.

“When I learned of father and Brandon’s deaths I wanted to leave the Tower, but I couldn’t. I was not allowed to.” Lyanna says.

Her brother looks at her and then asks, his voice hard. “And the burning of the tower? Why did you not wait for me to come, you knew I was coming.”

Lyanna hesitates for a moment and then says. “I did not know if I could trust you.” The look of hurt that crosses her brother’s face then is nearly enough to break her heart but she shoulders on. “You had fought alongside Robert; you were his most trusted commander. Tell me, had you found me and my son, what would you have done?”

Ned shifts uncomfortably. “I would have done the right thing.”

Lyanna snorts at that. “And what would have been the right thing for you Ned? Robert laughed when told of Aegon and Rhaenys deaths. He has denied the Martells justice for Elia’s murder, he has rewarded the Lannisters beyond recognition. He tried to have Viserys killed when the King was nothing more than a boy. If you had found us, you would have been honour bound to hand us over to him. Do not deny it brother.”

Ned sighs, and then he replies. “I would have taken your child in Lya. He is my nephew.”

“And what of me, what would you have had me do?” she asks.

Ned looks uncomfortable then, his response is soft. “I would have asked you to fulfil the promise father made to Robert.”

Lyanna holds her hands up. “And there you have it. I will not go on about this, but I will merely say this. Robert Baratheon is not the man you think he is. He never has been; you need merely look at what he has done since becoming King to see the truth of that.”


	31. Quiet Wolf

**1 st Month of 297 A.C. Winterfell**

**Lord Eddard Stark**

The day had dawned as he knew it would, bright and early, the summer sun blaring into the room with its fully glory. Eddard Stark, could feel his heart hammering in his chest. He had gone through a lot of emotions during the course of his siblings’ stay at Winterfell, joy at seeing them both, shock that Lyanna was still alive, anger at what she had done, and then finally uncertainty over what to do. Robert was not the man Ned had thought him to be, word coming from King’s Landing was broken and distant, he had never quite forgiven his friend for what words they had exchanged during that fateful day in the throne room. And then there was his conversation with the Kingslayer that had constantly crept into his mind over the past few years, it would never leave him alone. He sighed then, and looked at Catelyn, his wife, his love, his rock, she had stood by him through all of this, had listened and voiced her opinion when asked, and now, now he needed more than ever. Catelyn takes his hand then and squeezes, he smiles at her, takes a breath then speaks.

“What do you think I should do my love?” he asks her, desperate to know what she really truly thinks.

His wife is silent for a moment and then she replies. “I think that they’ve given a good argument as to why the dragons are good, but there are things that I think they’ve not quite considered.”

Intrigued as to what she means by that, he asks. “What do you mean? What have they left out.”

Not letting go of his hand, she raises her free one to place it on his cheek and then she says. “You fought to put Robert on the throne, you are like a brother to him, and though you have not spoken to him for a long time, you still feel closely connected to him.” He nods, not really wanting to deny it, his wife continues. “Furthermore, there is the fact that there have been two attempts to put Viserys Targaryen on the throne and both have failed. Robert is far too strong support wise for it work. People have not forgotten that he was the man who ended Aerys’ reign. And the tools they have used to villainise Aerys are still working today. The Lannisters and the Arryns remain firm behind Robert, and my father cannot move without fear of Lannister persecution.”

Ned nods, seeing the sense in her arguments, but then he points out. “But the Lannisters continue to grow in power, and I know that will anger many lords who might have otherwise remained outside the realm of politics. Gods know I have thought about getting involved.”

“Then why don’t you?” his wife asks. “You are Robert’s truest friend, surely you could help him see where the problems are? Why commit to a dynasty that has left a bad taste in your mouth, and I know it has Ned, do not try and deny it.”

Ned sighs, pushing closer into his wife’s hand, liking the feeling of her hand on his cheek. He looks into her eyes and says. “I do not know, something happened to Robert when he sat the throne. He became someone else, the man I had known for most of my life disappeared right in front of me, and a stranger was there before me. I do not know, I have spent so long wishing for my family to be reunited, if things could be that way under Robert, I might push harder for it. But I know he would only ever want Lyanna to be his, and that is something I know she would not accept.” He takes a breath and then continues. “I fear Robert might too far gone, for me to do anything to help him, I do not know. And then there is what happened in King’s Landing. Jon’s men are dying, and yet Robert lets the Lannisters grow in power, how can I convince him otherwise if the man who helped raise us cannot?”

He hears Catelyn sigh, feels in his heart as well. “Then we are left at a difficult stage. Robert is the King on the throne now, but he does not seem to be doing anything. Whereas Viserys Targaryen seems to be offering something new.” His wife looks thoughtful then. “How did your lords react when you bent the knee to Robert my love?”

Ned wonders where his wife is going with this, as he replies slowly. “They were surprised. The change was a big one, the north bent to the dragons after all. But they went with it because of my friendship with Robert.”

His wife looks at him intently then, a thoughtful expression on her face, and she eventually replies with something that makes him want to ask her what she means. “Well there is your answer my love.” Before he can ask her what she means, Maester Luwin knocks on the door and drags him away for something else, that makes the time pass, but eventually the time comes for him to give his sister the answer she has been waiting for.

He looks at his sister, sees the vibrancy of youth still writ on her face, he looks at his brother and sees the struggles of a burden on him, and then he looks at his nephew, and sees a Prince. He takes a deep breath and then says. “I hope you have found your stay here to your satisfaction Your Graces, Benjen. It has been an honour to host you.”

“It has been good to see you once more Ned.” Lyanna says smiling. A pause and then his sister asks the question he has been dreading. “Now do you have an answer for us?”

Ned takes a deep breath, his nerves filtering through him, making him slightly nervous, he feels his wife take his hand then in comfort. He looks at her out of the corner of his eye, and then he speaks. “After much consideration I have decided that I will remain out of the fighting for now. I must protect my people, but should the King call when he lands, I will do what I can to ensure he is safe and is strong. On that you have my word.” It is not a promise as such, but it seems to do for Lyanna, for she smiles.

“Very well then brother. Be well.” With that his sister extends her hand and he leans down to kiss it before watching her mount her horse alongside their brother and her son as they gallop off into the distance, his heart heavy, wondering what the future will bring.


	32. Questions

**8 th Month of 297 A.C. Volantis**

**King Viserys III Targaryen**

He was eagerly awaiting his conversation with Jon and his nephew’s mother and other uncle. He was not a fool, he knew the Starks would be the key to ensuring others rose for him, they controlled one of the biggest, if not the biggest of the realms under the control of the throne, and brought with them a lot of men. The thought of them riding to war under his banner was an intoxicating thought, one he could appreciate. There had been offers of marriage for Daenerys hand in the time that his nephew had been gone, offers coming from the King of Volantis, for his son, from other noblemen in Volantis and elsewhere, but Viserys had kept them waiting. He wanted to see what Jon did, whether the boy would marry Daenerys with or without his permission. There was a lot the boy had to learn, but Viserys was confident he would learn in the required time, the boy was a quick learner, and that was something Viserys was proud of. The red woman had been going on about something or the other, what she had been going on about, he was not sure, he did not pay attention when she spoke, only when she sucked his cock did he really care, other than that she was kept to the side. He smiles slightly at that, and then shakes his head, calling for Ser Jonothor to show his nephew and goodsister into the room.

He looks at them both, and then gestures for them to sit down, once they have he gets straight to the point. “So tell me, how was your journey to Winterfell and the north?”

Jon is the one who responds. “It was very good Your Grace. The north seems to be quite a welcoming place, and one where people do as they say they will. Winterfell was strong and old just as the histories say it is.”

Viserys smiles at his nephew’s enthusiasm. “And how did you find the Starks? Especially young Robb?”

At this a strange look crosses his nephew’s face for the barest of moments but then it disappears. “I found them to be intriguing people. Robb is someone I think could be a good friend to us and very useful in the war to come.”

Viserys nods approvingly, and then looks at Lyanna and asks. “How did your brother respond to your reappearance Lyanna?”

A look of discomfort appears on her face, but then it is quickly replaced by a blank expression. “He reacted as well as one might think. He didn’t immediately hand me over to one of his guards, but I do think that there was more that could have been done to warn him before I arrived, perhaps that might’ve done more to make him willing to truly listen.”

Viserys looks at her curiously. “What do you mean?”

Lyanna clears her throat clearly uncomfortable, but she speaks nonetheless. “There seemed to be an element of resentment in my brother’s demeanour whenever he spoke to me. He tried to hide it, but it was there nonetheless. And I do think we might have done well to inform him that more than just my brother Benjen were going to be appearing at Winterfell.”

“I thought you sent him word in a coded letter?” Viserys asks.

Lyanna looks surprised at that. “I did not, I thought it would be too risky to do so. Or at least I was told so.”

Viserys feels surprise and suspicion fill him then. “Who told you that?”

The look that crosses Lyanna’s face is one of uncertainty. “Haldon I think.”

Viserys thinks over this for a moment before replying. “I see. Well it makes no difference now, you have been to Winterfell and spoken to your brother. How did he respond when you stated the terms?”

He sees Lyanna swallow and he realises she is nervous. “I…he replied about as well as someone in that position could respond. He did not laugh, but he asked a lot of questions.”

Viserys cocks an eyebrow then, he had not thought Eddard Stark the man to ask questions. “Such as?”

“Why we were fighting to put you on the throne Your Grace, and not Jon.” Lyanna says, Viserys sees his nephew shit uncomfortably.

“I see.” He replies. “And how did you respond?”

“I told him the truth.” Lyanna says simply.

Viserys does not need to ask her what she means, he knows well enough what she means. He merely nods and then asks. “So what will he do? Will he remain true to the usurper, or will he fight for his rightful King?”

A silence follows his question, and as it begins to stretch on, Viserys can feel his impatience begin to grow, eventually, Lyanna responds. “He will do what he thinks is necessary.”

Viserys digests this information, it is not exactly the thing he wanted to hear, and whilst it doesn’t exactly delay his plans, it doesn’t exactly move them forward. Still, there are things that have been set in motion in Westeros that will happen regardless of Stark’s involvement and that gives him hope. It gives him the confidence to nod and reply. “Very well. Thank you for your service, both of you, you may go now.” His nephew and Lyanna stand and bow their heads before him, before turning and walking out of the room.

A few moments as he had expected, the red woman appears in the room, and she comes to stand before him. He looks at her and asks. “What do you want Melisandre?”

The woman places her hands on his arms and says softly. “I want only to serve you my King, I want to see you sit the throne.”

Viserys looks at the woman, and smiles. “Well then you know what you need to do.”

The woman nods, a smile on her face. “It shall be done my King.”

“Good.” is all he says in response, his heart turning cold as he looks at the woman before him.


	33. Old Falcon

**12 th Month of 297 A.C. King’s Landing**

**Lord Jon Arryn**

Things were slowly getting back to peace, for fourteen years Robert had sat the throne as King, and things were easing back into normalcy finally. There had been no more attempted uprisings since the failed Appleton rising, the realm was at peace, the Dornish were murmuring, but nothing more. Jon had heard Prince Doran was ailing, that the man was staring death in the face, and that was something that was a potential cause for concern, but nothing more. The lions were slowly accepting their places in court, and the realm had accepted that they were back to being on top. And yet there was one thing that was causing some concern, Ned had started asking questions. The ward who had shut himself off from the world since the rebellion had started getting active once more, asking questions about things that Jon would have preferred left dormant. Things that had happened long ago, so long ago, that he was having difficulty remembering them, and yet still his former ward was asking questions and it was making him nervous. Jon had managed to direct him elsewhere, on a false trail, but if he came to the right conclusions from those misdirection’s gods alone knew what would happen. And so he worried and waited, but there was not much more he could do on that front.

Still, there were other things he had to concern himself with. Ever since the lions had dealt blows to his men, he had begun keeping an eye on them and as such, he was now meeting with his men who were keeping eyes on them. He looks at the two men, Dorren and Doggett their names, and he asks. “What word do you have for me today?”

Dorren, the smaller of the two men speaks first. “Jaime Lannister has been spending more and more time with the Queen, my lord hand. We think that the Queen might be with child.”

That surprises Jon, the Queen had not been with child since the birth of Prince Tommen some seven namedays ago, the third blond haired child the Queen had given the King. That she is with child now, is something strange. “I see, and what makes you think that she is with child? We all know that those two have some sort of strange connection, this could be nothing more than the two of them meeting.”

Dorren nods. “It could my Lord Hand, but we think it is not. As you know, the Kingslayer and the Queen are often quite discreet about their meetings, but recently we’ve seen them meeting more and more frequently, as such, something that only happens when they have something serious to discuss or when the Queen is nearing her time of meeting with the King.”

The realisation of what the man is saying hits him hard then. “You think the woman is trying to get rid of whatever child she might be carrying?” the thought seems momentarily preposterous, and then he thinks of how the two interact with one another and it makes sense.

“Yes my Lord Hand. We think that she is trying to remove the King’s child from her loins. And the fact that it is her brother who is meeting with her and delivering her the moon tea, and the tansy, we think is symbolic of this. After all, Pycelle would be far too obvious.” Dorren replies.

“Have you seen the tea in the man’s hands?” Jon asks, knowing full well the importance of such a thing.

“Yes, twice now.” Doggett says speaking for the first time, his voice slow and thick.

Jon nods, accepting the inevitable, and knowing that the fallout from this revelation will be something major, war threatening major he presumes. Still, there are other things he needs to discuss with these two men. “And what of Lord Baelish? What word do you have for me on that front?” Baelish, a snake who has climbed the ladder due to Jon’s fool of a wife, the man who was once an ally and is now out for himself.

Doggett speaks then. “He is spending more time around the brothels he owns, and it seems that he and Lady Lysa have been having more intricate meetings as of late.”

Jon sighs then, his wife hates him, he has known this for a long time, but he would have thought she’d be smarter in choosing someone to love, Baelish is a snake, nothing more nothing less. “What sort of meetings?” he asks, dreading the answer.

Doggett looks somewhat ashamed then, and it is then that Jon remembers that the man is from the Riverlands, and would have known Lysa growing up, he briefly wonders if he can trust the man, before dismissing that fear, the man has not been wrong before. “They have been discussing the ways in which they can get more funds for their own doings, as well as how they can best exploit the situation within King’s Landing.” The man pauses, and Jon wonders if there is more, sure enough. “And how best to remove you from the board my Lord Hand.”

Jon looks at the man, and digests this new piece of information, it does not surprise him as such. He has known for quite some time that his wife hates him, and that Baelish has always wanted to use him for an advancement through the ladder, still he supposes the fact that they are planning all of this now is somewhat surprising. Keeping his face expressionless and his voice neutral he replies. “Very well, thank you, you may leave now.” The two men stand, bow and then straighten before walking out of the room.

The moments pass by as he sits alone in his solar, thinking through all he has heard, all he has learned today, and in the years past, he knows that there are more things to come, he knows that dangers lie ahead. If what he suspects is true, there will be war soon, a war that they might not win, but the truth needs to come to life. And yet he does not feel as if he can answer that challenge, he has scaled many mountains during the course of his life, but this feels as if it is one challenge too many. He sighs to himself, it is a shame that it has come to this, but really, what more could he do, he has done what he promised, and now it is time for him to leave. He looks to where his cup rests, he looks at it, counts to seven and then takes the cup, looks down into the red contents, licks his lips and then presses the cup to his mouth taking deep gulps of the liquid. He waits a moment, feeling the drink and the vial kick in, then just as the time feels right, he says a prayer, and closes his eyes, he feels the weight lift from his shoulders, a laugh escaping from his lips, as the world goes cold.


	34. The Sun Goes Down

****

**2 nd Month of 298 A.C. The Water Gardens**

**Prince Oberyn Martell**

There was a certain sense of peacefulness and tranquillity about the Water Gardens that Oberyn loved. He was not sure why he loved it, considering how much he loved action and actually doing something, how he could not stand to be still. But something about the Water Gardens just made him stop and take a moment to enjoy the peacefulness and the beauty of the place. Dorne was enjoying peace now, after some of the troubles following the rebellion, but Oberyn knew that there would be tough times ahead. Word had come that Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King was dead, and the clouds were moving, Oberyn could feel them moving, could feel the change in the wind. Doran was ailing as well, his older brother, such a strong force for so long was fading from the world, the gout and heart ache that had plagued him for so many years finally catching up with him. That was why he was in the Water Gardens, Doran had summoned him, no doubt determined to pass on some last minute instruction before he passed, or something else like that. It was a strange thought, but one he had slowly become used to.

Oberyn looks at his brother, his face pale, his expression pained, the gout must be especially bad, he holds his brother’s right hand in his left hand, and he can feel the heat leaving his brother’s body, the thought scares him. Doran speaks then interrupting his thoughts. “My time is nearly at an end here brother. We both know it, there is no point in trying to deny it. Therefore, we must discuss those things that need discussing and ensuring that they are dealt with.”

Oberyn nods. “Of course.”

Doran laughs softly. “Now this must be a change, you with little to say, and me with a lot to say. How if only Elia could see us now, she would laugh.” His brother coughs, a wracking one that causes his body to spasm. Oberyn goes to hand his brother a cup filled with milk of the poppy but Doran holds up a hand. “No, not anymore. I shall not take the milk anymore.” His brother takes a breath then continues. “Where is Arianne?”

Oberyn takes a moment to think over where exactly his niece is and then he replies. “She is here, brother. She is where you asked her to be.”

Doran seems to sag back slightly, from relief or more pain Oberyn does not know. His brother’s voice is soft but strong when he speaks next. “That is good. I have not done right by her. And I fear I might not have enough time to explain it all to her, but I will do my best.” Doran takes a shuddering breath and Oberyn closes his eyes slightly, fighting the feeling of sadness that is threatening to engulf him now. “You will look after her and guide her will you not brother? I know she is a woman grown but she is young still, and she is hot blooded, I do not know where she will be guided and by whom.”

“I promise I will guide her. I will advise her as best as I can brother.” Oberyn swears knowing that he might have an easier time of it than Doran did.

“Good.” Doran says, his voice barely above a whisper. He takes another shuddering breath then says. “Now, there is one more thing I need to discuss with you.” Another shuddering breath, then Doran continues. “Gerold Dayne is a man who cannot be trusted, he wants a title that was never given up. He will come to Sunspear the moment I have died, and he must be stopped. You know what needs to be done do you not?”

Oberyn nods, and then seeing his brother’s closed eyes he voices his agreement. “I do. Gerold Dayne will not get very far I promise you.”

Oberyn knows that that cannot be the final thing his brother wants to discuss with him, and sure enough, Doran opens his mouth once more to speak. “As for the Targaryens. We have promised them an alliance, and we must see it through. Arianne will succeed me as Princess of Dorne, but we must get something from that alliance, a marriage if nothing more. We must make sure they do not insult us again.”

Oberyn wonders how in the name of the Seven he will get that marriage, but he voices his agreement. “Of course.”

Doran nods his head then, and without opening his eyes says. “You may go now, but send Arianne in will you, I need to speak with her before I go.”

“Yes brother.” Oberyn replies, kissing his brother’s hand before letting go and walking out of the room, he sees Arianne waiting by the door, and says. “Your father wishes to see you.” His niece nods and walks past him into the room. He stands there for a moment uncertain of what to do with himself, and then he decides to walk to the pools, where the children play.

As he walks he finds himself thinking through the times when he and Doran were children, Doran had always seemed so much older, and as he thinks on that, he thinks that that was because his brother was, older. Doran was some ten namedays old when Oberyn was born, was a man grown when Oberyn was playing in the pools in the Water Gardens, and was married when Oberyn was beginning to squire and fight. For so long he felt as if he was playing catch up with his older brother, they had argued, and they had not always gotten along or agreed with things, but they were brothers, and now that his brother was facing his end, Oberyn found himself uncertain. The world was changing, his brother had been a constant presence in his life for so long, that without him, he did not know what he would be or who he would be. It was a silly thought he knew, but it was one that kept appearing in his mind again and again. He shakes his head then, and begins moving forward, but before he reaches the balcony or the pools themselves, he hears the chiming of the bells, and he knows then, his brother is gone, he is the last sun.


	35. Barrowlands

**4 th Month of 298 A.C. Barrowlands**

**Lord Eddard Stark**

Jon Arryn was dead, how he had died Ned was not quite sure, and it seemed no one was, one moment he had been perfectly hale and healthy, the next he was found slumped over his chair dead. Robert claimed that Grand Maester Pycelle had found that his heart had stopped, but a letter from Cat’s sister had made Ned wonder if there were any other reasons for Jon Arryn’s death. Truth be told Ned was quite shaken by it, the old man had seemed as though he would never die, and now he was gone, it was a strange twist of fate that. With Jon dead, Ned was Hand of the King, he’d accepted Robert’s offer, alongside the offer to betroth Sansa to Prince Joffrey, and they’d moved south, but there were things Ned had been noticing about the royal family that made him question that decision. Robert was not the man he remembered, he seemed overweight, he seemed short of temper and he did not focus for things for long. The rest were all parasites, sucking away at him as he rode south, and Ned found himself thinking of Lyanna’s words, and wondering how it was she had been so right. There were a lot of things that worried him, a lot of things, and he was not sure how to sort them out.

Robert had summoned him early that morning and now here they were, sat overlooking the Barrowlands where many a King of the Rills and supposedly even the First King had been buried. There was something on Robert’s mind, that much Ned knew, but what that might be, he was not sure. Eventually, Robert speaks breaking the silence. “You know; I have dreamed of this moment for a long time. Ever since we won the crown together Ned. I have dreamed of working with you, running the kingdom together.”

Ned feels a tinge of guilt at that. “You could simply have asked you know. I would have come.” and it is the truth, regardless of how he had felt at the end of the rebellion, Robert was and is his King, he would have come had his friend called.

Robert waves a hand, a dismissive gesture that is reminiscent of the days they used to spend in the Vale. “Ach, well. We did not end things well after the rebellion, and I wanted to give you some time to heal. We all needed time to heal you know. I think that might have been what got to Jon in the end.”

“What do you mean?” Ned asks curiously.

His friend looks at him as if he has grown a second head, but replies all the same. “Well, Jon was an old man when the rebellion happened, I do think that the ruling of the realm as Hand might well have made things worse for him. I should have done more, but then he never wanted my help.” Robert sighs then, and brings up an old memory as Ned knew he would. “He never did want our help when he struggled with something. Do you remember?”

Ned knows exactly what his friend is referring to, a time during the rebellion when they’d found Jon hunched over a bowl, vomiting blood, the old man had refused their help with anything and moved on with life. He smiles sadly. “Aye. I do remember. He was a stubborn old man. Just like us two are.”

At that Robert laughs, a great booming sound that fills Ned with a little warmth. A moment passes by, before his friend speaks once more. “You know, there are going to be a lot of things that take their toll on us Ned. We are the last of our generation to still be going. Doran Martell is dead, his daughter rules in Dorne now. And I can tell you one thing for certain, I would not be surprised if war breaks out before the year is out.”

His friend’s words surprise him and he finds himself asking. “You really think so?”

Ned sees his friend nod his head emphatically. “Oh definitely. Doran Martell was many things but he was not a war monger. His brother on the other hand is, as is his daughter. I think we both know that Ned. Dorne will rise up for some reason or the other, and I can guarantee you now, that Viserys Targaryen is already making his move toward Westeros. That Maegyr King has been chomping at the bit to place him on the throne.”

Ned remembers Lyanna’s words, and feels his heart tighten. “When do you think they will come then?” at Robert’s questioning gaze he goes on. “The dragons. If they are going to come, when do you think they will come?”

“I do not know. The eunuch does not know when they might come. All he says is that it will be soon, and that it will be big when it does happen. The dragons have built up support in Essos, and there are greedy whoresons here that would take advantage of that.” Robert replies anger in his voice.

Ned thinks of Sansa, of Bran of Arya, of the three of them stuck in King’s Landing during this and he replies. “Then do something now.” Robert looks at him an eyebrow raised, and he elaborates. “If you think it will be something serious then act now. Summon your loyal lords and march on those you know to be traitors. Act now and prevent them from doing anything.”

He expects to see fire in Robert’s eyes, instead all he sees is amusement. “Ned, you know I cannot do that. Moving on someone without definitive proof that they will side with the dragons, that would be tantamount to suicide. None of the reports are definitive, mere whisperings. I am not Aerys, I will not make mad decisions.”

“Then what will you do?” Ned asks, feeling his heart hammer in his chest because of the worry he feels.

Robert’s voice is firm when he replies. “I will wait and when they act, I will kill them. I will kill them all.”


	36. King Over The Water

**5 th Month of 298 A.C. Volantis**

**King Viserys III Targaryen**

“Doran Martell is dead.” the words are simple enough to say, but their meaning is something that is only truly beginning to sink in for Viserys. Doran Martell, the Prince of Dorne, the man who was a guaranteed ally in the war for the throne is gone, and now his daughter is the ruling Princess of Dorne. Viserys looks around the room, seeing the various members of his war council shifting, looking strangely despondent. Viserys looks at Ser Jonothor and asks. “Do we know how he died?”

“From gout Your Grace.” The old knight of the Kingsguard replies.

Viserys nods, and then asks. “What is his daughter like?”

It is Ser Arthur who replies. “From what I remember of her, she was bold and adventurous, as a child.”

Viserys snorts. “She is not a child now Ser. She is a woman grown, a woman who now rules one of the realms that makes up my kingdom. Will she remain true to the alliance her father made with us? Will she want a marriage, or will she want something else?”

There is an uncomfortable silence following his question, as the members of his war council consider what he has asked. None of them know for sure, that much is for certain. They had not counted on Prince Doran dying as he did, the man seemed as though he would live forever. Eventually, Jon is the one to break the silence. “Surely she will not break the alliance? Dorne still hungers for revenge, and you are the best chance for that Your Grace. Furthermore, they are at odds with the usurper and his court and have been since the rebellion. They cannot change that course of action now.”

Viserys nods, acknowledging the sense in what his nephew says. It is why he says. “Perhaps the time would be right to extend an offer of marriage to her as well.” He sees something like fear flit across his nephew’s face then, and knows that the boy is thinking of Daenerys, there is something there, Viserys knows, between his nephew and his sister, but for now, he will let Jon think over that. “A marriage might well be the best way to secure Dorne, firmly. They are far too slippery when it comes to this, better to tie them to us through more definitive methods.”

“You would use one of them as a hostage?” Lyanna asks something akin to disgust in her voice.

Viserys stares at the woman, he has never truly liked Lyanna Stark, but he has come to accept her as family, though he does not quite approve of her flirtations with Ser Desmond, he lets it slide. This time though, his anger fills his voice. “I will do what is necessary to ensure that they do not betray us. If I need to use one of them as a hostage against their Princess, I will.”

“A wise move Your Grace.” Lord Jon Connington says, the man looks in better shape than he has done previously, the thought of returning home clearly filling him with excitement. “The Martells must realise they are depending on us just as much as we are depending on them.”

“What about Jon Arryn?” Jon asks then. “The Hand of the King to the usurper is dead, and now the usurper will be looking to bring the Starks into the fold. The man’s death is a big blow for the usurper. Will we exploit that?”

Viserys nods approvingly at his nephew, proud at the man his nephew is becoming. He looks around the room and says. “Yes, we shall definitely exploit that. If I remember correctly, Lysa Arryn has never liked the Lannisters, and her son is but a boy. That cannot be easy for her, her son’s bannermen will be looking to take advantage of that. Perhaps we can make her an offer that she would be a fool to refuse.”

“What sort of offer Your Grace?” Lord Raymun asks curiously, Viserys does not fail to note how close the man is sitting to Benjen Stark, something that brings a smile to his face.

“I shall offer her the protection of the crown. The usurper has removed the title of Warden of the East from her son, and given it to the Kingslayer,” here saying that man’s name forces a snarl to come to his voice. “I shall restore it back, and extend the right of the King to the Vale.” An ancient privilege exercised only once before, but something the lords had welcomed all the same. The Right of the King would mean any who questioned Lysa Arryn or whoever was regent of the Vale would answer to him. And if he is correct in his estimation, that would be enough to convince her.

“How will you extend the right Your Grace?” the Half Maester asks, Viserys does not quite trust the man, not after what Lyanna had said.

“I will send word to my sources there, and let them know to inform the woman of the offer. If she rejects it, then she is a fool. And I do not think any daughter of Hoster Tully would be a fool.” Viserys responds confidently.

“What of Hoster Tully himself Your Grace?” Lord Raymun asks, something akin to malice in his voice.

“I believe Tully will join us, he’d be a fool not to with the Lannisters and Freys closing in around him. But still the time is come for us to make more of a presence within Westeros.” Viserys replies.

“What do you mean by that Your Grace?” Lyanna asks.

Viserys looks at her and then at the room at large “Our friends at court are going to be making a lot of noise very soon. The usurper will have a choice to make, and whatever he chooses will decide his fate.”

“What does that mean Your Grace?” Lyanna asks once more.

Viserys looks at her, he stares right at her and says. “It means, Lady Lyanna, that my time of waiting is over. We shall muster and we will take back what was taken.”


	37. Young Wolf

****

**6 th Month of 298 A.C. Winterfell**

**Robb Stark**

Being the Stark in Winterfell was an honour and a privilege, it was also a terrifying thing. He was the one responsible for ensuring that things ran smoothly in Winterfell whilst his father was away in the south. He was the one responsible for managing the accounts, for ensuring people paid their money on time, all of that was his responsibility. It was both exhilarating and terrifying. So far he would like to think he had done a good job at it all, nothing had gone wrong, there was no trouble from anywhere, and things were running smoothly. Arya had come back from the Barrowlands, father had sent her back for reasons that were unclear, but apart from that things seemed fine. Robb was still having difficulty understanding why father had accepted Robert Baratheon’s offer to become Hand of the King. As far as Robb could tell, father had slowly come to accept the inevitable, that the dragons would return, stronger and better than ever, and yet, there he was in King’s Landing acting as hand, with Sansa betrothed to that shit Joffrey, it did not make sense to him. It really didn’t.

There were other things on his mind right now though. He had asked for a meeting with his mother, Ser Rodrik and Maester Luwin to discuss various things and get their opinions on them. He looks around the solar, notes mother’s tired eyes, and makes a note to speak with Arya when this is done. He clears his throat then begins speaking. “Father is away in the south, and he has left the governance of Winterfell and the north as a whole with me. From what I have been able to gauge things are running smoothly, and there is nothing overtly worrying or concerning occurring within these lands. If there is something, I would hear it now.”

Silence follows this statement, and as it begins to drag on, he begins to think perhaps they will have nothing to discuss. But before he can change the topic, Maester Luwin speaks. “A raven has come from Hornwood my lord. Written not in Lord Halys’ hand, but in the hand of his maester. It seems they are facing some very troubling circumstances.”

Robb nods, that is most certainly odd. “What circumstances might these be?” he asks.

Luwin takes a moment to find the letter, before he hands it to Robb. Speaking as he does so. “It seems that Lord Halys is getting some very threatening letters from the Dreadfort, something to do with a dam that was built many years ago. Lord Halys has sent men there to reclaim the land, using the writ that you issued, but Lord Bolton’s men have it seems reputed that.”

That makes Robb grit his teeth in frustration. “Bolton has refuted that? Is this Lord Roose, or his sons?” the brothers Bolton are troublesome, but Domeric is generally agreeable.

“His son. It seems that in Lord Roose’s illness, and his son Domeric’s absence, Ramsay Snow has begun issuing edicts using the sigil of the Dreadfort.” The maester responds.

Robb takes this into consideration and then asks. “And how many letters of this nature has Lord Halys received, and why is it that his maester is the one writing the letter, and not the man himself?”

At this the maester seems uncertain, but then he does eventually reply. “I think it is because Lord Halys himself is trying to solve the issue peacefully. Usually when a maester writes the letter, it is because the lord of the castle is moving towards final solutions.”

Robb does not need to ask what the maester means by that. Instead he looks to Ser Rodrik and asks. “How goes the training of the men Ser?”

Ser Rodrik is a gruff old man, but someone who Robb and his family have come to trust implicitly. “It goes well my lord. The men are ready to fight whenever the call comes.”

That had been something that Robb had wanted to ask his father about, if he was going south to be Robert’s hand, why did he need men to be trained and ready as if preparing for a war? Pushing that thought down, he says. “Would they be prepared to move toward the Bolton lands?”

He can see the surprise on Ser Rodrik’s face as the man replies. “Yes, I believe they would my lord.”

It is at this moment that his mother decides to speak, her voice firm but also questioning. “Why are you thinking of moving toward Bolton lands?”

Robb looks his mother right in the eyes and says. “Yes. I cannot afford for there to be something of disturbance in the north now. Not with father in the south, and strange things happening elsewhere. We must ensure that things are peaceful. Furthermore, the Boltons have been causing all kinds of issues.”

He can tell his mother does not quite approve, though she does not say as much when she replies. “Do you not think that there could be another method for finding out what is happening in Hornwood?”

Robb shakes his head. “No, there is no other method for dealing with this issue mother. The Boltons have been given a warning, multiple times now, it is time they were dealt with, with force. If nothing else, it will give us a chance to see what our men can do.”

His mother looks unconvinced, and even slightly worried, but before she can say anything, Maester Luwin speaks. “If I may, my lord?” Robb nods gesturing for the man to continue. “I think that perhaps continuing on this path might be a dangerous thing. The Boltons have not committed a direct offense yet, perhaps waiting for some time before acting would be best?”

Robb can see what the man is saying, but he is set in his course now. “I understand where you are coming from, but I think the Boltons have been given enough of a chance. The time to finish this is now. We have the men, and if there is to be war, we must see what the men can do. Ser Rodrik, have the men ready, we shall ride out soon enough.”


	38. Resign

**7 th Month of 298 A.C. King’s Landing**

**Lord Eddard Stark**

The more Ned thought about it, the more relieved he was that he had sent Arya back to Winterfell when they had been in the Barrowlands. She would not have enjoyed it and would have caused all kinds of unnecessary problems, he was already having trouble dealing with Sansa and Bran, both of who were not normally demanding children. King’s Landing was the reason for that, or at least King’s Landing under Robert was the reason for that. It was a cesspit of vipers and traitors, and Robert seemed more than content to allow that to happen. All the words, all the promises his friend had made, had been broken, broken the moment they had left the north and returned to King’s Landing. Robert drank and whored, and left him to rule the kingdom, to navigate through the swamp of intrigue and lies. It was tearing him apart inside, for he remembered what Lyanna had said, what Jaime Lannister had said that day in the throne room all those years ago, and he was seeing it come to life, right before his eyes. The more he thought about it, the angrier he got, and he had had enough.

That was why he was here now, standing in front of Robert, looking at his friend, trying to keep his anger in check, trying to keep his voice calm. “Your Grace, Robert, the realm is in tatters. We must do something about the state of the treasury, I do not trust Baelish, I do not trust half the people here. And we need to cut down on spending.”

“Alright, do it then.” Robert says dismissively, taking a deep sip of his wine.

Ned feels a flash of irritation run through him. “Robert, are you even listening to me? You need to be seen doing something to change this, you need to actually do something instead of sitting in your rooms and drinking.”

Anger must have crept into his voice, for he sees Robert look up at him, his face flushed. “Watch your tone Ned. We might be friends, but I am still your King.”

That really pisses him off then. “Well you might act like it once in a while. Instead of acting as if you are still a boy in the Eyrie.” He growls.

Robert straightens, the cup of wine in his hand falling to the floor. “I said watch your tone!”

Ned stares at the man, his anger and the ice he feels coming into him then. “What are you going to do Robert? You are controlled by your wife, and by your fear of her father. You won’t do anything. You are not the man I fought alongside during the rebellion.”

The words are meant to sting, and clearly they do, he can see the hurt on Robert’s face, but he does not regret saying them. Robert’s voice is stepped in anger. “You watch your tone Ned. I am your King!”

Ned snorts derisively. “You have not acted like a King in the time I have been here. All of your talk of us running the kingdom together, and you sit there in your room drinking and whoring. Not bothering to see what is happening around you. Not bothering to see what your heir is like. Not bothering to see that there are more golden haired shits here than anyone else. Robert, you are not a King in reality. The Lannisters own you.”

“So help me do something about it!” Robert bellows. “You are my friend are you not?”

Ned sighs, his shoulders slumping, but then he remembers the tears in Sansa’s eyes after something the crown prince said to her, and he stiffens, his shoulders straightening. “I am your friend Robert. But I have been trying to sort this out, I have been trying to reach you for moons now. And I do not know how to go about doing this. I do not how to make it any clearer to you. You need to be a King, not a puppet.”

He thinks his friend has finally seen sense, but then, he roars a response. “I am no man’s puppet.”

Ned sighs once more, but then anger rises inside him once more, as he remembers Sansa’s tear stained face, and he sees Bran’s hand. “Then explain to me why Joffrey is the way he is Robert? Explain to me why your wife is telling you what to do, and why there are Lannisters everywhere. Do you even know who runs Dragonstone?”

His friend looks as if he is going to retort, but then he sighs, picking up his drink and filling it with wine once more. “What do you want me to do Ned?”

Ned stiffens once more in anger. “You are the King, for the love of the gods Robert! You do not need me to tell you what to do, it should be obvious to you!”

His friend’s anger returns then. “Well it clearly isn’t otherwise I wouldn’t be asking you, now would I, you pompous arse!”

Ned stares at Robert, fighting the urge to hit the King, knowing that there are two knights of the Kingsguard standing behind the man, as well as two men standing outside the doors. He stands there, and looks at the man, shaking with anger. In a low and dangerous voice, he says. “I cannot keep doing this Robert. Either help me, or let me go.”

His friend looks at him shocked. “You would go? You would leave? After everything?”

Ned nods. “Yes.”

“Then leave, go running back to your cold mountains and your snow. Leave and never return. If you do, I will have you killed Ned. Remember that. Remember that when you are fucking your wife. And remember that when the dragons come back. And remember who it was who comforted you when your father and brother died.” Robert says. Ned merely looks at him. “Now get out of my sight.” Ned nods, unpins the badge of the Hand of the King, lays it on the table before them, and then turns and walks out, his heart hammering, a deep desire to hit something growing within him.


	39. Heavy Horse

**7 th Month of 298 A.C. Hornwood**

**Robb Stark**

The men had mustered together, eager to try out the new moves and manoeuvres they had learnt against a foe that was just asking to be dealt with. Two thousand men had come to the call, men from Winterfell, from Cerwyn and from Torrhen’s Square as well as from Deepwood Motte had come. A lot of men were mounted on horses, preparing for the new moves that Robb had had them learn. Mounted on horses from the Rills, they looked a fearsome sight and Robb knew they would do well during the fighting that was to come. He had decided to take command of this host, and do as he knew his father would have done. The Boltons, or rather Ramsay Snow had been a plague on good conscience for as long as Robb could remember, and now the man was going to get his due, and perhaps they’d finally figure out what had happened at the Dreadfort to Roose and Domeric Bolton. And they’d get some form of justice, something that had been lacking in that part for a while. He’d said goodbye to his mother and his brother and sister, and then ridden out, and now they were coming close to the enemy.

There before them, Robb can see the flayed man banner of the Boltons, a banner that he knows came when they flayed a Stark King alive, when they were nothing more than mere stewards. Theirs is a long and bitter history, but it is one that has become peaceful with time. Hopefully, once Snow is dealt with it can return to that. His men are around him, formed into two distinct battles with Lord Cerwyn leading the other battle. He draws his men to a half, looking around as he assesses the ground before them. Soft and subtle changes are here and there amongst the grass, but nothing major. He looks at Ser Rodrik and nods, the archers, only around thirty of them, put their arrows into the ground and begin stringing their bows to prepare to fire. In the distance he can see Castle Hornwood, its flagpole bearing the flag of the Dreadfort, something that sends irritation and anger up his spine for the mere stones that Snow has, the time is coming, the air grows thick with tension as they all prepare. Somewhere, a bird chirps, before it is silenced.

His archers take their arrows out, as the sound of horses reach them, in the distance the Bolton host grows nearer, his heart is hammering in his chest, he watches that army advance ever nearer, he watches out of the corner of his eye as his archers knock their arrows and begin the countdown. Moments turn in longer pauses in time, things seem to slow down, but eventually, the enemy army comes closer into sight, and the command goes out. Arrows are released into the sky, and Robb watches their ascent with rapt attention, fascinated by how their progress will go. As it is there are arrows that land before the enemy, doing nothing more than startling horses, then there are arrows that hit the enemy, and send foot soldiers sprawling to the ground, crying out in pain. Arrows that land and hit mounted men, causing them to grunt with pain. The command goes out once more, and arrows are continuously released until there are no more arrows to fire. By that point, the Bolton men are dying and limping through a barrage of bodies, but still they advance. Robb blinks, looks at Greywind for comfort, and then draws his sword, he bellows something, something he does not remember, and leads the charge.

He can hear the sounds of battle, as his men ride into battle, into the chaos that is about to approach them. It is something that frankly he finds terrifying, if he were not leading this host, he thinks he might well have preferred to have sat behind the lines, but he is not, and now he is there, drawing his sword, swinging his sword through men on foot, who fall to the ground, broken, never to see their wives, their children, their families ever again. Onward they march, Robb’s sword takes on a mind of its own, hacking, slashing, cutting, and breaking through a throng of men who are all on foot. It seems the Bolton horse are being pressed back. A thought that is corrected when horsemen come toward him, they duel and duel, and somehow he comes out on top, pressing the advantage, bodies grow more numerous, and their piles grow higher and higher. There does not seem to be an end to it, but soon enough there is a clearing, and he presses through. He is tired, his body is caked in sweat, his armour covered in mud, blood and gore. He looks for the bastard, and finds him, fighting three men, killing one, beating back the other two. Robb rides towards them and soon is locked in yet another fight.

The bastard fights like a mad man, his swings lack precision, there is brute strength behind what blows land against him, but there is no substance behind them. More often than not, Robb is able to get into the man’s guard and hit him where it hurts. Over and over again, he swings his sword, cutting the man to tiny little pieces, but the bastard refuses to die, he keeps going. Blood pours down, in all kinds of directions, but onward they continue, fighting and fighting. There is nothing there, but the two of them, onward they go, swinging and swinging, hacking away at one another, leaving one another bleeding, but the man keeps fighting, until he doesn’t. Robb is not sure what stops the man, whether it is a swing, or simple blood loss, but soon enough the man falls down, broken and beaten, his heart not beating anymore. Robb stops, looks around and then bellows commands, and the fighting stops. They ride from there to Castle Hornwood, where they find the corpses of Lord and Lady Hornwood, their fingers and bones broken, they find Daryn Hornwood, caved in on himself, and Domeric Bolton chained to a chair, his eyes mad.


	40. Prince

**7 th Month of 298 A.C. Volantis**

**Prince Jon Targaryen**

The preparations for war were in full swing, the sound of men training, of steel being forged, those were the sounds Jon heard when he woke up in the morning and when he went to bed at night. He was there, training alongside the Golden Dragons and the exiled lords, preparing for the war that was edging closer day by day. They were developing skills that would put them in good stead for when they finally started the war. They had not left for Westeros yet, for it seemed that the King was waiting for one more ally to show themselves, and as of yet there had not yet been a sign, or there was something else the King was waiting for. Jon did not know what it was, but he hoped whatever it was it happened soon. He looked at the King now, and he sees a man he would willingly fight for, and die for, the King who helped raise him, who has shown him a home. Yes, he would definitely fight for the King. And he knows that everyone here would as well, that is the beauty of it. They are all fighting for a common cause, and with that in mind none can stop them.

The King had asked to meet with him, and so here he was, standing next to the King, observing the packing of goods and tools that they would need for their journey. The fleet was ready, it just needed more things to be loaded onto it. The King speaks then, breaking the silence. “Soon enough we shall be ready to leave. We have one hundred warships carrying us and our supplies. More than enough for us to be getting on with.”

Jon nods and then asks. “Where will we land Your Grace?”

The King looks at him momentarily, and then looks back at the things proceeding before them. “We shall land in Dorne. I had considered going to Dragonstone, but we would need to traverse through the Stepstones, and frankly that is one place I would rather not go to any time soon.” The King shivers slightly at some memory.

“Will you make Princess Arianne an offer of marriage Your Grace?” Jon asks, wondering whether he wants to know so that he can make his request, or whether it is just general curiosity that makes him ask.

The King looks at him an amused smirk on his face, but his words are simple. “I will make her an offer of marriage. My hand for hers, seal the pact that should’ve been done a long time ago. I think the time has come for Dorne to be properly included into the fold.”

That both surprises and reliefs Jon. “I thought you would not want to give them something like that Your Grace? After all, you were the one who taught me that the Dornish ask for much without giving much in return.”

The King laughs at that. “Ah yes, I did say that didn’t I? Well I suppose you could say that this time it is different because I am the one giving the Dornish something, and this time I will be taking something from them. If the Princess of Dorne is as smart as her father was, she will accept this offer, and also give me a tool to use over her brother. And besides, we could then more effectively control Dorne.”

“You would not let her secede her rights as Princess of Dorne?” Jon asks surprised.

“No. I want Dorne to be a firm part of the Seven Kingdoms, not outside on its own. The only way to do that, is to ensure I help rule it.  Arianne Martell will keep control of Dorne as its ruling Princess, and as my Queen. I will make sure of that.” The King responds.

“How do you know the Dornish will accept it Your Grace? Mariah Martell had to give up her rights to Dorne when she married Daeron the Good.” Jon points out.

The King chuckles slightly. “Indeed she did. But then, I am not Daeron the Good, and Arianne Martell is not Mariah Martell. From what I have learned, the woman has been treated as shit by her father, she has been through hell thinking she would not get what was hers. She will not give it up easily, and I plan on using that.”

Jon nods, seeing the sense in what his King is saying, and then tentatively he asks. “We seem to be ready to leave Your Grace, why then do we not leave?”

The King turns from looking at the preparations going on below, to fix him with an appraising gaze. Jon expects some declaration, but instead the King asks him a question. “Tell me Jon, what do you make of Daenerys?”

The question is so surprising that he is caught off guard. “I…I…I think she is a lovely girl, and a smart one as well. Anyone would be lucky to know her.” there is more he wants to say, but he does not say it, allowing the silence to fill the void.

The King continues to look at him, staring at him intently. “And what do you think of her? Do you love her?”

“Of course. She is my family, of course I love her.” Jon stutters.

The King smirks. “You know exactly what I meant when I asked you that question Jon. So tell me, do you love her?”

Jon looks at his cousin, trying to fight through several different emotions, before eventually saying. “Yes. With everything I am.”

The King smiles. “Good. Then you have my blessing.”

It takes him a moment to figure out what the King means, and then he asks. “I do?”

The King nods. “You do. Go ask her, and we shall see you wed before we leave.”

Jon bows, and says. “Thank you Your Grace.” The King dismisses him with a wave, and Jon hurries off to find Dany.


	41. A King WIth No Friends

****

**8 th Month of 298 A.C. King’s Landing**

**King Robert I Baratheon**

Ned was gone, his brother in arms, his chosen brother, was gone. Ned had left, had resigned the handship, over something that before they would have been able to work out. Robert felt as if someone had taken his heart and stamped all over it. There was nothing left in his chest, his heart was a hollowed piece of his body, there was no feeling there, nothing. He had become a shell, inside and out. He had drunk himself into oblivion after Ned had left, the man’s words echoing around in his head, he remembered Jon’s words as well before the man had died, they echo around in his head, filling his desperation. Ned was gone, the council ruled, and he drank. But then word had come from afar, something was happening, something was coming, whether it was the war he had long suspected or something else, he did not know, nor did he care. He stopped drinking, and he started sparring more, fighting, doing all he could to get himself back into shape. If he was to die, he would die fighting, not on his knees, but with his hammer in his hand.

He was in the small council chamber, his mind alert, more alert than it had been for years. He felt alive, but there was more that needed to be done. There was no hand of the King, but perhaps that was for the best. He looks at the eunuch and asks. “What word has there been from the east? Where is the dragon boy and his fleet?”

The eunuch is silent a moment before replying. “They have left Volantis Your Grace, I think if my sources are correct, that they shall be heading to Dorne first. At one point it seemed Dragonstone was where they would go, but instead, it seems Dorne has been chosen.”

Robert snorts at that. “How predictable. The boy probably thinks he can get the new ruler to side with him. Tell me is the boy planning on getting the girl to marry him as well?”

The eunuch nods. “Yes Your Grace. It also seems that he intends to allow her to keep ruling over Dorne as well.”

Robert roars with laughter then. “How the boy is walking on egg shells, even I know that. He will not succeed, surely none are as foolish as to accept that.”

The eunuch hesitates for a moment and then replies. “It seems that the Princess of Dorne might well be willing accept that. Considering if you will the fact that it seemed to her that her father meant to disinherit her.”

Robert nods, seeing the sense in that it is a wonder what staying off drink can do for one’s senses. He looks at Paxter Redwyne then and asks the man. “So tell me Lord Redwyne, how strong is the Royal Fleet?”

Lord Redwyne looks somewhat surprised by the clarity of his questioning, but replies all the same. “The Royal Fleet has more than enough men and supplies to be able to take on the fleet that this pretender is coming along with. Furthermore, the presence of the Redwyne Fleet will be more than enough to break them.”

Robert nods, feeling his strength begin to return to him, however, before he can speak, the eunuch speaks. “Your Grace if I might make a suggestion?” Robert nods and the man continues. “I would advise against using the Royal and Redwyne fleets. I think that it would be best to allow Viserys Targaryen to land in Dorne. I think that if you allowed that to happen, it would send a clear message.”

“Yes, a message that I allowed a pretender to slip through my fingers.” Robert harrumphs.

The eunuch sighs and replies. “You do not need to hold all of the fleets back, perhaps I misspoke. If you allow some skirmishes and then allow the fleet to land in Dorne, that sends a strong message. It makes the Targaryen pretender come across as a foreign invader, someone who means to ruin what is good about Westeros.” The eunuch takes a moment to catch his breath before continuing. “The support for the pretender comes from exiles and foreigners. If you put the word out there, you can make it seem as though this man is trying to change Westeros.”

Robert nods seeing some of the sense in what the eunuch is saying. He looks around the room and then back at the eunuch. “Tell me Varys, what of the others within the realm. Who might rise for this pretender when he comes?”

The eunuch seems to take his time considering his response, eventually when he replies, his voice is soft. “As far as my little birds have told me, none of the major lords will rise for the Targaryen pretender. Though there are whispers that something is growing for him in the Riverlands.”

Robert cocks an eyebrow at this. “And how are the Tullys dealing with this?”

It takes the eunuch a moment before he can reply. “They aren’t Your Grace.”

Robert feels anger grow through him at that. Had Ned gotten to his goodfather already? Had his suspicions been right all this time. If his heart was no encased in ice, he thinks it might break, but instead it merely hardens, and so he says. “Send word to the Rock, tell Lord Tywin to prepare a host. And write to Riverrun, tell them to do something or suffer the crown’s wrath.” Pycelle nods his head in response.

Baelish chooses that moment to speak, his voice grating to Robert’s ears. “Your Grace, perhaps it might be good to speak with some of the investors within King’s Landing as well. After all, they would be able to call up the debts of any lords who would seek to back the pretender.”

“Yes, yes, do that.” Robert says waving his hand dismissively, he looks at Pycelle once more. “And send word around the realm. We are preparing for war; it is time my lords summoned their banners. I will meet this dragon and destroy him.”


	42. Wedding Bells

**9 th Month of 298 A.C. Sunspear**

**King Viserys III Targaryen**

After having had a small battle with the Redwyne Fleet, in which their commander had been slain, by his own hand, they had arrived in Dorne, docking their ships at the Planky Town, they had ridden forth for Sunspear, where a great many lords and ladies had come to welcome them. Dorne was hot and humid, but he had seen the look of joy on Ser Arthur’s face to be home, to be reunited with his family, no matter how small it might’ve become. The betrothal and marriage between himself and Princess Arianne had been announced there and then, welcomed with shouts of joy. With word coming of Robert Baratheon’s plans for armament, they had hurried along in negotiations and had gotten married earlier today, a splendid ceremony in the Sept at Sunspear. His bride had looked simply ravishing, and Viserys could not wait to take her out of her dress, and fuck her senseless. Truth be told, the way she was holding his hand and moving under the table, was making it hard enough for him to concentrate on the festivities unfolding before him.

The sound of a spoon beating against a cup drew his attention away from his wife, and he saw Prince Oberyn standing, the man had drunk a lot yet when he spoke his voice was still clear and coherent. “My lords and ladies, Your Graces, we are here today, to celebrate the union of two old and noble houses. Our King has come home, and with him he has brought a fine fighting force. With his marriage to our dearly beloved Princess, we are going to joining our spears to his cause. We shall remove the usurper and his cats from the throne and restore the rightful order!” a cheer goes out at that.

Viserys stands and raises his own cup. “Thank you Prince Oberyn for the welcome. And thank you to all of you for welcoming me and mine. It has been a long fifteen years. People have come and gone, but I remain, and you remain. We all remain, and we shall have our justice.” Another roar sounds in response to that. Viserys smiles, and then continues. “Together we shall reforge the Seven Kingdoms, we shall make them into what they should have been. A place of prosperity and peace. Where the lions are broken and dead, where the stags wilt before the true nature of what it is that stands before them. We shall gain all that was taken, and we shall have revenge for those who were murdered!” another roar sounds at that, and Viserys drinks from his cup before setting it down on the table and sitting down.

His wife takes his hand then and murmurs. “That was a rousing speech my King. Was it one you have practiced many times?”

Viserys looks at his wife, a cheeky glint in his eyes. “Oh, you know, as a King one must be ready to give speeches. I have one prepared for our night together.”

The smile his wife gives him then is one-part intrigue, one-part lust, her voice is hushed and tight when she replies. “And what might this speech involve?” she leans in closer and whispers against his ear. “Is it a long one?”

Viserys takes their joined hands and presses it down there, and whispers back. “Why don’t you have a feel and see?”

He gasps as his wife presses down, he feels his length harden, and he sees a cheeky glint in his wife’s eyes. “Oh yes, a long one it is indeed. I very much look forward to this my King.”

He grins. “As do I.”

Before they can continue exploring one another under the table, Prince Quentyn speaks, looking at Viserys but not really looking at him. “Your Grace, if I might ask, when do you plan on marching for war and to where will you go?”

“Really brother, you would bring up the war now, during our wedding?” Arianne groans.

Viserys smiles reassuringly at his wife and says. “It is quite alright my Queen, I would respond to your brother’s questions, to reassure him of the soundness of our plan.” He looks meaningfully at his wife and she smiles then. He looks back at Prince Quentyn seeing something strange on his face, before continuing. “Once the wedding festivities are done, we shall spend a day here in Sunspear, before the fleet sails for a raiding mission through the Sea of Dorne and the Stormlands. The forces of Dorne and the Golden Dragons shall march through the marches into the Stormlands and the Reach, and we shall bring the challenge to the usurper and his men.”

“A bold plan Your Grace, but would it not be better to wait for more allies to come to our side?” the prince asks.

Viserys smiles at the question. “Oh that is precisely why we shall be moving as we are. There is support out there waiting for us, we need merely act and they shall come. I am sure you are aware of where we went wrong during the first war with the Usurper, this time there will be no exceptions. We shall march out make the most of the chaos.”

“Chaos?” the prince asks.

“Oh yes, there is chaos. Stark has resigned his post as Hand of the King, and even now the armies of the north are rumbling to life. The Vale wants revenge for the murder of their liege lord. Soon we shall have victory, and we shall avenge all that was lost.” Viserys responds confidently.

The Prince nods. “Thank you Your Grace, you have eased my doubts.” The man gets up and bows before turning and leaving the room.

Viserys turns to look at his wife and notices a strange expression her face. “My Queen, are you well?” he asks.

His wife goes to reply, but no sound comes out, she tries once more but instead spit comes flying out of her mouth, quickly replaced by foam. “Help, Maester, help!” Viserys cries out, panicking as he sees his wife fade before his eyes. He tries to help her, they all try to help her, but it does no good, something changes and his wife’s eyes roll back into her head, and she stops breathing in his arms. He howls into the silent room, anger and rage filling him then, for another thing he has been robbed of.


	43. White Lion

****

**10 th Month of 298 A.C. King’s Landing**

**Ser Jaime Lannister**

The white cloak had never felt as restraining as it did now. He remembered his vows, he remembered the feeling of honour and pride when he had donned the dark silver armour of the Targaryen Kingsguard, he remembered the hurt and anguish he had felt when he had shed that armour for the golden armour of the Baratheon Kingsguard. The rightful King had returned, had landed in Dorne, and Jaime knew what his sworn brothers would want from him, what Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Jonothor Darry would’ve wanted from him, but he could not do it. He could not leave Cersei; he could not abandon her. She had stood by his side through everything, and he loved her, he loved her with everything he had. He did not think he was a person without her, and that was a realisation that haunted him. He still had the armour locked away in the vault in White Sword Tower, he had the armour, he looked at it, and he prayed and prayed, he begged for forgiveness, forgiveness he was not sure would come for him. He did not know if it was worth praying for it anymore, but he kept praying.

Jaime looks at Ser Barristan, his Lord Commander, the man he looks up to and he wonders if the man feels as conflicted as he does. The man looks old, lines across his face marking his age. His voice sounds weary when he speaks, the rest of the sworn brotherhood listen as the man speaks. “The King has requested that we train and prepare, make ready for battle, for it could be declared at any point now the Targaryen pretender is here.”

Jaime looks at the man and then at his fellow sworn brothers, unsurprisingly, Rivers is the one to speak in response. “What especially does he want us to do regarding those elements within the capital that might not be best prepared for him?”

Rivers’ question does not make much sense, but then the old man is like that. A damned good fighter, and commander, but someone Jaime is also terrified of for other reasons. Ser Barristan, looks at Rivers, measuring him up, before finally replying. “He wants us to leave them to the City Watch. He wants the city watch to prove its worth this time around.”

Jaime snorts at that, knowing exactly what the City Watch will do. “They will not prove their worth. Slynt is a buffoon who will do nothing but hum and ah about gods alone knows what.”

Ser Barristan looks at him disapprovingly, but frankly Jaime does not care right now. He listens to Selmy’s response only because the man is his Lord Commander. “The City Watch will do what it is being paid to do. For now, that is not our concern. We must make sure that we are trained and ready for when the war comes. For it will come, and the King is determined to be at the front when we ride off.”

Jaime cannot help but laugh then. “Will he be ready to fight? He is not exactly in the best shape.”

This draws laughter from almost everyone but Ser Barristan and Ser Mandon Moore, but that does not surprise Jaime, Selmy is a slave to his duty, and Moore, well Jaime thinks that Moore does not know how to laugh. “The King is preparing for the war as best as he can. Now that we know more about the pretender and who is in his army, we can prepare accordingly.”

Jaime shudders at that, Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Oswell Whent, alive and well, and in fighting shape, they will be after his blood, he knows it, for failing Rhaegar, for failing Aerys. Ser Jonothor Darry, an old man who was a legend when Jaime’s father was a boy, he is a prime fighter and clever as well. Jaime swallows nervously, and then says. “You know those three the best Ser, how would you deal with them?”

It is at this moment that Ser Preston Greenfield chooses to open his mouth and speak. “Three old men who are past their prime, what harm could they do?”

Jaime looks at the man as if he has grown a second head. Exasperated he replies. “Ser Arthur Dayne was one of the greatest fighters in the realm when I was a lad Ser Preston. He is likely better now he is older. He has had years to prepare. Ser Oswell is cunning and knows how to use his skill in a manner most men could never dream of. And Ser Jonothor, well, I shall leave Ser Barristan to tell you about him.”

Ser Barristan nods, something akin to fear and admiration in his voice then. “Ser Jonothor is old yes, but he is the smartest and most cunning of the men we have listed. He knows more about fighting than anyone in this room and perhaps anyone in the kingdoms. He is not to be underestimated.”

“So then, how do we deal with them?” Rivers asks.

Jaime looks at Ser Barristan, and sees reflected in the man’s eyes the same sense of hopelessness that he feels. Yet instead of saying they can’t the man replies with. “We train, we study their movements and we prepare. There is nothing more we can do.”

“Well that is useful.” Trant quips.

“There is nothing more to do or discuss. You are all dismissed.” Selmy says grimly.

Jaime turns and walks away, making to go to his chambers, but instead walking around and up the stairs, to a room he knows about. He opens the door, looking around before walking in. When he does walk in, he basks in the smell of ash and fire, and looks at the items on the walls and the floor, dragons everywhere. He moves before the armour he discarded once long ago, and kneels before it. He closes his eyes and whispers. “I am sorry. Forgive me Your Grace. For I have sinned, and I do not know if I will survive this war.” He can almost hear the words King Aerys told him before he died, and he laughs.


	44. Rumbles of War

**10 th Month of 298 A.C. Western Riverlands**

**Ser Edmure Tully**

The build up to war had been a long and slow one. Years of being insulted, of seeing those who were less deserving being rewarded and having their efforts rubbed in their faces, of seeing the struggle their people were going through to make a living, it had all come down to this moment. Edmure’s good brother had been the final straw for Lord Hoster it seemed, when the man had gone south, Lord Hoster had thought they might be able to get some sort of traction, that their pleas might be heard, but they were not, they were ignored once more. And then Lord Eddard had resigned his position and returned to the north, and Lord Hoster had made up his mind. The letters had come, telling them to deal with the dragon sympathisers, but Edmure had burned those letters on his father’s command. Now here they were, or rather here he was, riding to war, some twelve thousand men at his side, riding to fight the lions who had taken so much from them. He would do his father proud, and make sure the lions were bloodied and sent back.

His heart hammers in his chest, Edmure had fought against Darry’s rebellion all those years ago, and his heart had hammered then as well, but that had been when he was a young and naïve boy, now he was a man who had a wife and children of his own, and he needed to return to them. He was not sure what to make of the army at his side, there were a lot of horse, but many were mainly foot, pikemen, and men with billhooks and scythes and other weapons that were taken from farming the land. The Lannister army that was approaching them was a proper one, with mounted knights, and heavy foot soldiers, who had been trained and prepared for gods knew how long. He was nervous, but he was confident they could use the terrain to their advantage. He just hoped that the man commanding the enemy army was not Tywin Lannister, for then they would be finished, of that he was sure. He takes a breath, and moves his horse forward, not needing to give a speech, but merely needing to reassure himself that all will be well. A horn sound from somewhere in the distance, and he nods to his man, who blows their horn, and soon enough they are moving.

Lance gripped firmly in his hand, fighting the wave of nervousness that hits him once more, Edmure concentrates on the enemy in front of him. He counts the moments down, tracking each and every one of them in his head, trying desperately not to think of his wife and their children and what might happen if he was not to return to them. When the crash comes, it is not glorious, it is nothing like the songs, it is instead, violent and chaotic. Edmure feels his arms hurt from where the lance hits other people’s chests and their own lances. Onward, and onward they go, swinging their lances, hitting people and their shields, eventually his lance breaks, and he rushes to draw his mace, he fights with it for it makes him feel comfortable, it is not as comfortable as a sword, but it is something. As it brings down one man, then another, he begins thinking it is more useful than a sword. His men are swarming now, taking one look at the Lannisters and roaring their damnation of the enemy, on and on they go, pushing, swinging and hacking, cutting and smashing.

There are more of them then there are of him and his men, that is the thought that comes to him as he swings his mace once more, and brings down another cunt in red. It is a worrying thought, but they have the conditions on their side, none know the wet grass and the darkening mud, like he does, he has spent a long time here, and this is his home. They continue fighting, swinging their weapons, cutting through one another, taking on more and more men, desperate not to leave anything to chance, they keep going, pushing through everything, determined not to leave anyone alive. They keep pushing, he can feel the sweat developing within him, his armour feels as if it is sticking to him, he certainly knows his shirt is. He thinks of his wife and children, and keeps going, pushing through everything, determined not to lose himself, he cannot lose himself, not when so many people depend on him. Not when his father is ill and is near death’s door. He keeps going, swinging his mace, through it all, watching as more and more blood grows on the thing. His heart hammers, tiredness grows inside him, and that is when another horn sounds, and somewhere he becomes aware of another host coming toward them.

The traitors fly Frey and Lannister banners, and to make things even funnier they fly the banners of the man sitting the throne. Edmure knows they are lost in that moment, they get hit and his men are breaking. Facing one army from the left, and another from the right, soon enough they will shatter. His men are already tired, and most of them are falling down, breaking from the push of it all. He bellows out commands, but none seem to hear him, until they do. They cut through those that they can, and those who cannot leave, are left, left to rot and die, and though the feeling is a terrible one, it is not one he can regret, he needs to get back to his family. The thought of his family is what gets him through, as he leaves men behind, more and more of them are cut down, and so he rides and rides, and when the gates of Riverrun come into sight, he bellows for the bridge to be lowered. He and those surviving men left with him ride in and then the gate and the bridge are raised and closed, and he sags down, bleeding and hurting.


	45. Northern Savages

**11 th Month of 298 A.C. Somewhere outside Riverrun**

**Lord Eddard Stark**

It had taken him a while to decide what to do, what course of action to take. There were times when he wondered if perhaps he had made the wrong decision in resigning the handship and leaving Robert to his own devices in King’s Landing. There were times when he would remember what Jon Arryn, the man who had been more of a father to him than his own, would have said to him about this. And then he would remember Sansa’s tears, he would remember the look of pure fear on Bran’s face, and he would remember Lyanna’s words and Cat’s words, and he knew he had not made the wrong decision to leave King’s Landing. Robert was lost, and there was nothing he could do to prevent that. His friend had been lost for a long time and did not seem to want to emerge from that state. The decision to ride to war had been a hard one, he had considered everything, who he would declare for, what he was fighting for, who he was fighting for, and then that decided he had called the banners. Robb had married Ysilla Royce, an alliance long in the making and one that was drawing the Knights of the Vale into the fray.

Riverrun was under siege, Walder Frey had been convinced to give men over as he should have done from the beginning, and Ned had decided to divide his army in two. The majority of the foot and some of the horse had ridden toward the Ruby ford to confront Tywin Lannister. Under the command of Lord Galbart Glover, a man Ned trusted above all else for such a job, considering Roose Bolton was on death’s door and his heir Domeric was a shadow of a man. Ned commanded the majority of the horse, and a portion of the foot, and was racing toward Riverrun, determined to face whatever Lannister host was encircling it and defeat it. The fewer Lannister hosts that there were out in the field the better things would be. The Blackfish who had been sent by Lady Lysa was leading raiding parties into Lannister camps, and Robb was leading sorties as well, something that made Ned quite nervous, but as he sat and waited, his son was at his side, and they knew then that the battle would come to them. Daven Lannister was not a patient man, the chance to gain some revenge would undoubtedly be too big a thing for him to miss.

The horns sound, indicating the approach of the enemy army, Ned looks at his son and the boy’s wolf, and nods, taking a moment to say a quick prayer that they will emerge from this unscathed. Another moment passes, and then the sound of hooves reaches them, the enemy approaches, and banners come into view. Ned takes a breath, then another, and then he draws Ice, barks commands, and his horse is out moving, leading the galloping charge. His heart is hammering in his chest, as he moves closer and closer to the enemy, trying to gather some thought as to what might happen. When the crash comes, it comes with a roar, his sword singing as it gets its first taste of blood in a long time, he swings the great sword, and smashes into one man and then another, breaking them against the feeling of anger and determination within him. His sword sings as it cuts through one man, reducing him to a gurgling mess, another man is cut down, and Robb’s wolf cuts through one man. Robb is at his side, a constant, a reassuring thing that, Ned does not think he could fight without knowing where his son was and how his son was doing. They sweep through the army approaching them, breaking through their ranks, the plan they had spent a long night concocting finally working.

His arms ache from carrying Ice, but it is an ache he would gladly welcome if it meant removing the lions from the field for the time being. He looks for their commander, but cannot see him anywhere, he does not think the man would be as bold or as foolish as the Kingslayer to come out from where he is camped. Perhaps he is, perhaps he is not, it does not really matter to Ned, all that matters is that they move forward, and cut through the enemy as quickly as possible. His sword cakes the ground in blood, his own sword is covered in the red substance. A strange feeling goes through him, something that hints at unpleasantness, and other things he tries to keep buried underneath layers of coldness and honour. Deep down Ned has always known that this is what he is, he is a soldier, he was made for killing things, and no matter how much he might try to deny it, he gets a sense of being, a sense of belonging on the battlefield, no matter the horrors he sees, the death and the screams of men crying out for people who will never see them again. It is who he is, and that scares him, he does not want that for his sons, for his daughters, but he fears this war might leave it unanswered.

The battle rages on, men and boys die, all of the carnage started by Lannister greed and avarice, it angers him, it puts more strength into his swings, into the blows he throws at the enemy as they come. The more someone comes towards him, the more he cuts them down. His sword has become him, and he has become his sword, there is no distinguishing them now, onward they go, fighting, screaming their commands, determined to bring about the end of the enemy before them. Lion banners begin falling, and golden haired people begin falling. Through it all, Ned keeps an eye on his son, making sure Robb is safe, that his direwolf has not left his side. He breathes easier knowing that his son is safe, it allows him to keep fighting. They push through all the nonsense that happens, and they make it work for them, through it all, onward they go. Eventually, the battle comes to an end, when the commander of the enemy host is brought before them his head removed from his body, the other commanders pushing back for Riverrun, for a place they will not see, with the trap Ned has laid for them. He gives the command to push on, and they do, hounding the Lannister army back to Riverrun, where they are broken on the walls.


	46. Kingly Pursuits

****

**12 th Month of 298 A.C. King’s Landing**

**King Robert I Baratheon**

War, a fresh smell, it was advancing through the kingdom, and it was something he welcomed. Finally, there was something he was good at, something he could do, rather than sit on a throne and listen to people whine about their perfect little lives. The war was advancing through everything, and he was getting ready to take part. The fighting would be electric, there would be more for him to do, and he was determined to take advantage of it all. Ned had risen to fight for someone, and Robert felt the sting of that, but he wanted to be the one to kill Ned, or the dragon boy, whichever one they went up against first. He would be there to see them fall. It was a desire deep within his system, a desire to make things proper, to get the revenge he had denied himself when Ned had been in King’s Landing. It was getting warmer and warmer, and after this council meeting, they would be riding to war. To take on the dragons who were growing powerful again. He had trained, he had done all he could, now it was time to see whether he was good enough.

He looks at the council before him, Renly having gone to fight in the Stormlands, and Paxter Redwyne somewhere, recovering from his wounds. He takes a deep breath and then speaks. “Well, what is the position of the rebels and the traitors in the realm?”

The eunuch speaks. “Daven Lannister was defeated outside the walls of Riverrun Your Grace, he was slain and his army was shattered on the walls of the Tully castle. Lord Tywin has retreated to Harrenhal, and looks to be aiming to march on Riverrun.”

“Lannister will not make a move there. He is not mad. Riverrun is a strong castle, that can withstand a siege. No, no doubt he will look to draw Ned out, but that is not going to happen. Ned is far too cautious.” Robert muses.

“Perhaps an accord can be reached with Lord Stark, Your Grace? After all he only called his banners in answer to a plea for help from Riverrun.” Pycelle suggests.

Robert snorts at that. “The Tullys would not have needed to deal with a Lannister host had they simply done as I asked and dealt with those lords who were muttering for the dragons. But they did not, and so they suffered. Ned came to their aid, and put himself in their place as a result. There will be no seeking of accords.” The words hurt him to say, but they are the truth.

“Then, perhaps sending word to Lord Tywin and asking him to come to King’s Landing would be a good idea Your Grace? After all, you do plan on riding out from here, and leaving the city without protection would send a bad sign.” Pycelle suggests once more.

Robert looks at the man, and thinks that if he could he would have the man’s tongue removed from his person so he could not keep mentioning Tywin fucking Lannister, but then the man would not be able to inform him of the goings on of the realm. “No. Lannister will remain where he is. When the time comes he will move as I have told him to move, not before, and not after.” He smirks when Pycelle seems to shrink in his seat, and then turns to Varys and asks. “Well Lord Varys, tell me, what is happening in the south, how has the pretender dealt with the death of his wife?”

The eunuch looks surprised at the relish in his words. But it does not come across in his response. “It seems that the man is dealing with his grief by burning through the Stormlands Your Grace. The Weeping Tower, Mistwood, Stonehelm, Crow’s Nest and Griffin’s Roost have all fallen to the pretender’s forces. And the Dornish have marched through the Boneway, and are currently looking to take base in Summerhall.”

“Where are the armies of the Reach?” Robert demands, feeling a flicker of panic for the first time.

The eunuch shifts slightly in his chair. “They are dealing with their own issues within the Reach Your Grace. It seems there are lords within the Reach who do not wish to remain tied to your house, and are looking to bring themselves into the Targaryen fold.”

“What of the Tyrells? What are those up jumped stewards doing?” Robert asks, wondering if his suspicions about them are true.

He is surprised when the eunuch responds. “They are working alongside the Florents to try and stop the trouble within their kingdom.”

“No doubt they will want something from all of this, despite the fact that they are merely doing their damned job for their King.” Robert muses aloud.

“If I might ask Your Grace, where do you plan on going? The army of the crownlands is coming to King’s Landing, but where will you lead it? To the Riverlands, or to the Stormlands?” Baelish asks.

Robert thinks over this for a moment, wondering if he might be able to get some revenge on Ned, but then deciding against that, knowing as he does that Ned would see through him if he tried to do that. He takes a sip of water, grimacing at its sour taste, he then says. “No, I shall command the army toward the Stormlands, to aid my brother against the dragons. A portion of the army will then head under the command of Ser Jaime to the Riverlands to aid Lord Tywin.”

Baelish nods his head in acknowledgement of this, before saying. “If you wish it Your Grace, I could go to the Vale, and convince Lady Lysa to give the swords of the Vale to your cause.”

Robert looks at the man, assessing him and seeing that there is a snake in there, amongst all the good will. He decides there and then not to trust Baelish; he will need to pass that onto the cunt who is his heir. “No, thank you for the offer my lord. But you shall remain here.” He can see the disappointment hidden behind a smile in the man’s eyes, and merely smiles in response. He can’t wait to get out on the field and fight.


	47. Fighting

**12 th Month of 298 A.C. Stormlands**

**Prince Jon Targaryen**

A fierce passion had taken over the King since the death of his wife. They had left from Sunspear, and moved onto the fleet, destroying the Weeping Tower, and landing their ships there. From there they had moved out, and took what castles were nearby and destroying what armies came into their path. Jon had never seen his uncle so determined before, it was almost as if after holding his wife’s dead boy, the King had been replaced by a monster, well not a monster but someone completely different. Jon did not know what to make of that, but they were winning so things were okay, at least for a time. Jon did not know what to make of everything that was happening. He had been given command over one of the pieces of the army for this battle that was to come. Renly Baratheon, the youngest of the usurper’s brothers was riding out to face them, and Jon wondered if they might get the chance to thin the Baratheon herd once more. For this one did not have any children, and was rumoured to like men as well, not that there was anything wrong with that, but it did not bode well for Renly Baratheon at least.

He held command over two hundred of the Golden Dragons, and had Ser Arthur Dayne at his side. There were also the men from various other places that had come and sworn themselves to his uncle, the King, some of them were under his command, others were under the command of his uncle and others were under the command of Jon Connington. It was a strange experience being in command of a part of the army, he had been part of the army as it had hit the places that had fallen, always listening to his uncle or to Ser Arthur, but now, now he was in charge, and he was determined to make a good show of it all. As he saw the enemy approaching, or rather as they got closer to the enemy, he found his thoughts going closer to Dany, and their unborn child, he missed her, but he knew she was safer in Mistwood, alongside mother and the other ladies of the court. When this was all done they would be reunited, and they would be able to show one another how much they loved one another without fear of someone using it against them. That thought brought a smile to his lips, he looked forward to that day, he looked forward to seeing his uncle, the King seated on the throne. To come home.

The lance in his hand was strong, he gripped it hard, determined not to let it go, and determined to make full use of everything that was at his disposal. The enemy got closer and closer into his view, and when the time was right, he braced himself for impact, and the lance hit its target. Knocking off one man, and then another, their battle had begun. He felt the familiar rush of battle, his lance was leading the way. His mind was playing catch up it seemed, but onward they rode, he swung his lance and made his move, taking out one man, and then another, the feeling of life slipping through his fingers, a heady rush. Onward they pushed, taking the time to get their bearings, if they could find Renly Baratheon himself, then perhaps this might well end here and now. For Jon was sure the Stormlords would not fight against their rightful king with their liege lord dead, or some such. Right now, his thoughts were not the most strengthened, the fighting was taking over, his heart hammered, and his blood surged through his veins. Onward they rode, his lance was somewhere far away, and his sword was in his hands. He swings his sword, and watches as one man and then another falls to the ground. Wounds are opened, and men are dying around him, but onward he goes.

He sees his friends falling about him and that only strengthens his resolve, he pushes onward, blood spattering his helm, his arms aching, men are falling around him, some are crushed by their horses, others are merely crushed by the weight of blood that falls around them. Onward he pushes, determined not to slip, not to break, and not to fall. He thinks of Dany and their child, he thinks of his uncle the King who is counting on him, he thinks of his mother and his uncle, and he keeps going. He hears the roar of the battle, and knows his uncle, the King has joined the fighting, things will grow intense now. He smiles at the thought, and onward they go, swinging their weapons, determined to enjoy the rush that comes through it all. He laughs as another man falls, somewhere in the throng his helm was removed, but still he goes. Feeling the air on his face, he smiles, and keeps going. The push continues, onward and onward, ever onward, nothing can stop them, they will emerge victorious.

He sees a white wolf and dragon banner fall down then, and he feels his heart lurch. That’s his uncle Benjen’s banner. His uncle who has been more of a father to him. He feels something sink inside him, and he roars a command and he and his guards move toward that place. As he rides he sees his uncle surrounded by men, five at most, they poke and probe at his uncle, cutting him, digging deep, he screams as his uncle’s sword drops to the ground with a loud clatter. Lord Raymun appears then, bellowing commands and roaring challenges, and he too fights before falling. Jon watches helplessly as his uncle and Lord Raymun fall into one another’s arms one last time, their hearts beating in time until they no longer beat. Jon gets there as his uncle breathes his last. His anger controls him then, his sword draws itself out and hisses with revenge. He cuts and cuts and cuts, until there is no one left to kill but air itself. The battle continues to rage around him, but it matters not, Jon stares at his uncle’s corpse and yells into the air.


	48. Questioning

**12 th Month of 298 A.C. Griffin’s Roost**

**King Viserys III Targaryen**

The battle had been fiercely fought, Viserys can still hear the cries of men as they fought and fell, as women became widows, as mothers would soon know the terror of being on their own, as children learned what it meant to grow up without fathers, without brothers. The thought was a heavy one, but it was one that was necessary, he needed the reminder for why he was fighting. The usurper had brought this upon himself, he had sealed his fate a long time ago, and the time was right for him to be dealt with. The battle had raged, and they had lost two men who Viserys had come to rely upon, Benjen Stark and Raymun Darry, the two men had died in each other’s arms but it was a blow that they all felt. Lyman Darry, Raymun’s son was now Lord of Darry and that was a heavy burden for the young boy, but Viserys had promised Raymun that he would look after his son and he meant it. They had captured a very valuable prisoner, Renly Baratheon, Lord of Storm’s End, the usurper’s brother, he was there before Viserys, looking at him with something akin to fear and awe on his face.

Still dressed in his armour, mud trailing after him, Viserys stands before the prisoner and speaks, his voice commanding and imposing. “Tell me Lord Renly, why did you fight for your brother? From what I have learned of you, you do not like your brother, and you prefer the company of the roses. So tell me, why did you fight for your brother?”

Baratheon quirks an eyebrow at him and responds. “Because he is my brother, and I was taught never to abandon family, no matter how undeserving they might be.”

Viserys snorts. “Ah yes, that old trick. So tell me Baratheon, where is your brother. If he is your family, why has he not come to help you? Why does he remain in King’s Landing, hiding behind the city walls, whilst men far better than him fight his wars?”

He thinks that Baratheon will not be able to respond to that, but the man surprises him by saying. “He is preparing for you Targaryen. He is getting ready to fight you, on terms that will be his to decide.”

“I see.” Viserys replies amused. “And tell me Baratheon, why is it then that your brother’s court has so many lions and foxes infesting it? Even Eddard Stark could not remain there for long. Tell me, why should you keep fighting for him, when he never looks at you?”

He can tell Baratheon wants to argue that point, but all he says is. “He is my brother.”

Viserys snorts. “Yes, I think I understood that the first time Baratheon. But tell me, when did that stop him from rewarding those who were less deserving, compared to you. How did he react when he found out I had killed your brother Stannis?”

A look of anger and grief passes over Baratheon’s face then, his voice is soft, though Viserys can hear the grief when he replies. “He was angry, but only because you were the one who killed Stannis, nothing more.”

“And tell me who got Stannis’s position?” Viserys asks, sensing an opportunity here.

“Paxter Redwyne, a man who has always been of questionable loyalty. But Robert listened to his wife and named the man to the small council.” Renly responds.

“And what else has the Lannister woman done to your brother?” Viserys asks, his voice soft.

Renly Baratheon looks at him and replies. “She has pushed him into the man he is today. There is nothing healthy about her motives, she merely does what she does to try and increase her family’s power. Whilst my brother lets her because he does not have the stones to stand up to her.”

“Have you told your brother this?” Viserys asks, putting curiosity into his voice, making Renly feel more comfortable to talk.

“I have tried.” Baratheon replies, sounding haunted. “But he laughs at me, and tells me not to worry. He does not take me seriously, he never has.”

“And how does he take his duty as King?” Viserys asks in that same soft tone.

Renly Baratheon looks at him, looking all the world like a lost child in need of guidance. “He, he does not. He does not take his duty as King seriously. He holds tourneys and he uses the crown to get people to pay him money, but that is all he does. He does nothing else, he does not understand the role of King.”

“And do you think such a man deserves to be King?” Viserys questions.

Renly Baratheon seems as though he is fighting an inner battle with himself, eventually, the man replies. “No, I do not.”

“And why is that?” Viserys asks curious.

Baratheon laughs then, a bitter sound. “Because if a lord does not take his duty seriously, his people will suffer. If a King does not take his duty, then the whole realm will suffer for it. and the Kingdoms have suffered enough.”

Viserys stands a little straighter at that. “So tell me Baratheon, what will you do?”

“I do not understand.” Baratheon replies.

“What will you do? Will you allow the realm to remain under the barren influence of the lions and your brother? Or will you give it the chance to breathe again, will you give it the chance to prosper again?” Viserys questions.

Silence follows his question as Baratheon considers his options, Viserys allows the silence to stretch on for some time, he had not been expecting an answer immediately, and so he remains standing before the man, dressed completely in armour, with mud and blood drying on his armour as well as on the floor. He observes Baratheon’s changing expressions with something akin to fascination, but comes to attention when Baratheon speaks. “I will give the kingdoms a chance…Your Grace.”


	49. Oxcross

****

**1 st Month of 299 A.C. Oxcross**

**Robb Stark**

The war was advancing at a pace that seemed reasonable to Robb, they had won a victory and ended the siege of Riverrun, forcing the Lannister men to flee back into the West or towards Tywin Lannister’s host, only to be broken and scattered thereof. That was one of the good things to have come from the fighting, another thing was his marriage to Ysilla Royce, a woman he had known since they were children, as she had served as a companion for Sansa in Winterfell. He cared for her greatly, though he was not sure if he loved her, he hoped that with time, love would develop, he did not want to be in a loveless marriage after all. They had married in the godswood at Winterfell before father had called the banners, in order to cement support for their cause from the Vale, something that seemed slow in coming as it were, something he knew worried father, and something that worried himself as well. But truth be told, there was nothing else that they could do on that front. So they had drawn up their plans and decided to act on them. To draw Tywin Lannister out of Harrenhal and back to his home they would raid the West, and Robb had been put in command of some five thousand men for that specific purpose.

Greywind had been a godsend, finding a pathway through the mountains that would allow them to miss the Golden Tooth and the hardened defences there. Robb had initially considered go through the Tumblestones but being aware of the mountain passes and the lack of suitable cover for an army, had decided against that. Now, they were riding through the pathway Greywind had discovered doing their best to keep silent so as not to bring themselves to the attention of any guards or sentinels that might be on alert. The rush of adrenaline that was coursing through his veins was making him excitable, and yet he was just about managing to keep himself calm. As they rode onward, he began wondering where exactly the Lannister army was, he wondered whether they would be having scouts out, looking for an enemy presence. Father had said that any commander worth his stones would, but as they had been shown by the display at Riverrun, some of the Lannisters had more brawn than brain, and were more likely to act first and think later. Something Robb fully intended to make use of should it prove to be true here as well.

The sound of men muttering drew his attention, snapping into focus, Robb looks around, and sees his uncle the Blackfish nodding in agreement to an unspoken question. They draw the army to a halt, five thousand men bringing themselves to a stop as one. He and his men stop and wait, he can hear the breathing of his men, as they wait, desperate to find something to hold onto, his own heart is hammering within his chest, but he does not make a sound, nor a move. They wait and wait, and as the sounds get closer, he looks at his uncle once more, and nods in agreement. They draw their swords, preparing for the fight that is to come. Robb takes a breath, and says a quick prayer to the Old Gods, determined to see it through to the end, no matter what, but also to see his wife again, to see Winterfell once more. Another breath and then they are riding forth, not bothering to keep their voices down. The crash of armour on armour, and men on men, steel on steel comes and fills his veins with energy. His sword is drawn and is circling through the foes who would try and deny him his victory. Onward they fight, the direwolf banners giving him strength, his direwolf at his side.

They push through, swords swinging, scouts falling to the way side, cut down by the sheer size of the enemy pressing in on them. His uncle is at his side, swinging and hacking as well as Robb does. They are hammering their way through, slashing, ducking, dodging, doing what they can to avoid being cut down. Still, he takes a few blows to the chest, and to his sides, blows that leave him shaking slightly, but still hale and hearty. Blood is trickling down his sword and his armour, but men keep coming, they continue to press forward, seemingly determined to do him harm. He laughs at them, and welcomes their onslaught, swinging his sword as if it is nothing more than a brush. The sight of men falling down, their eyes going blank, their vision turning into dust, it fills him with fear and with anger, and hope. All of these emotions that he cannot truly understand, but still he rides on, swinging his sword, taking down those who would fight against him.  Onward he rides, his sword caked in red and brown, blood and mud mixing equally as they fight onwards. There is tiredness in his limbs, and in his bones, but onward he goes. Swinging his sword, and pressing himself into the best position to win this battle.

There are lions dying before his eyes, a sight that fills him with relief as well as a sick sense of grief as well. So many innocent men are dying for the wrongs committed by their betters, the dragons are the best way for the kingdoms to progress, that is just common sense, and yet lions are fighting for a Stag, a Stag who is not fit to be King. They move forward, swinging and fighting, kicking and biting, doing what they can to bring down the enemy before them. Onward they ride, swinging their sword and their weapons, doing what they can to bring down the enemy. Eventually they come to a point where they have done their best, there are tents on fire, there are men running around being cut down before they can get very far, and then there are the lion banners being thrown to the ground. Men come before them then, throwing down their weapons and surrendering, announcing they will not fight for Lannister anymore. That they are his men now, that they are dragon men now. He accepts their surrender with a smile, and then declares that they will move onward, the Rock is nearby and the time is coming.

 


	50. Lions With Teeth

****

**2 nd Month of 299 A.C. Somewhere in the Riverlands**

**Ser Jaime Lannister**

War had come to Westeros, as Jaime had known it would. Robert was still alive, and that was the surprising thing. The man who sat the throne had sent him with some five thousand crownlanders to aid Lord Tywin against the forces of the north and the riverlands. Five thousand men who were mainly foot soldiers, pikemen, and archers, with a few heavy horse thrown in for good measure. Jaime was not sure how he felt about all of this, things were growing more and more difficult to understand and to control as time went by, and he was beginning to think that this might well be a dream, a dream from which he might never wake up. The past sixteen years had been a dream, a horrible dream, in which nightmare upon nightmare was thrust upon him. His honour had been questioned, his soul had been lost, and the only light that there had been throughout it all had been Cersei, and now she was in King’s Landing, and he was in the Riverlands, marching alongside men he did not know nor trust, doing his duty to a King he was not sure he was loyal to. It was a strange game of fate.

His father had met him at Harrenhal, a grim look on his face and even grimmer words had been delivered. Stark needed to be drawn out of Riverrun, or at least the Tully heir needed to be. And so after much discussion and debate they had decided on a plan, and now Jaime was out trying to make sure that that plan went off without a glitch. They were raiding upward, northward, closer and closer toward Riverrun, determined to play on Ser Edmure’s weaknesses, the desire he had to play a hero to everyone. No doubt Stark would try to rein him in, or at least he would if he had any sense, but Stark had honour, and that was what Jaime was counting on. Jaime had ordered his men to not hold back, they were committing atrocities that were making his stomach turn and making him want to throw up, yet it needed to be done, they needed to win this war in order to keep their heads. That was what Jaime told himself, and yet it didn’t sit well with him. He closed his eyes once more, as the screams of the dying filled his ears. The smell of death was a foul thing, not one he wanted to ever smell again, but he had a fear that he would before he died.

The sound of men chattering away and horns blowing brings Jaime back to the present. He looks questioningly at Ser Adam, the one man from his father’s army who his father had agreed to give to him, and the man merely looks forward. Jaime follows his friend and cousin’s expression and sees the reason for the noise. Ahead of them, drawn into formation are banners and the men holding them. Direwolf banners and Tully banners, the army had come out. Jaime swallows nervously, his father is somewhere beyond waiting for the right moment to strike, another host led by a Frey gathering as well. Jaime looks at the enemy before him, takes a moment to calm his heart, and then takes his lance holds tight, breathes, then bellows a command. The charge begins, his heart is racing in his chest, his arm is steady, the lance strikes true, it knocks a man in the chest, knocks another man to the ground, and another. A fourth man falls before his lance breaks, and he draws his sword. There is complete chaos around him, more and more of the people before him are either friend or foe, he does not know, caught in battle lust as he is, he keeps fighting, swinging his sword, determined to not die. To keep fighting regardless.

Life and death, they are fickle things on a battlefield, Jaime has fought in battles before, in skirmishes, he’s done all he can to keep himself in shape, to remain at the top of his ability. To be able to be the knight he always wanted to be when he was a child. It has been difficult, but he thinks he might’ve been able to achieve it. He keeps moving, he swings his sword, and watches as men fall to the ground, he might feel guilt over the fact that innocents are suffering, but the men who are before him now, he feels no guilt over their deaths. They are soldiers, and they are meant to die, or he is, and he does not want to die. He keeps fighting, he keeps swinging his sword, he keeps moving, pushing himself until his arms hurt, until his body feels as if it might grow and break and grow again. His horse navigates around the blood and the bodies, the smell of it all making his gut lurch, and his stomach swirl with nausea. Still he goes on, more and more men are falling, his arms hurt, his body aches, but he keeps going. Determined to make use of himself, determined to end this before his father is needed. He thinks that perhaps they might be done soon, but he is not sure. And so he keeps going, he keeps swinging his sword, taking a life.

The fight continues, more and more men grow cold before his eyes, because of him, it is a haunting feeling, knowing that he is responsible for so much loss of life. Still, it needs to be done. Jaime keeps going, moving forward, his blade covered in blood, his arms aching, his body sore. His armour is caked in mud and dirt and blood, it will take an age to clean. Stark and Tully men are swarming around him and his host, they might well lose this battle, but they will damage the enemy morale, if he can get toward Stark, perhaps he might end this now. That image in his mind he pushes forward swinging his sword, cutting through the enemy as he does so, they are nothing more than nuisances, Stark is there fighting, he is right before Jaime’s eyes, and then a horn sounds somewhere, banners appear, and Jaime loses track of Stark, but the battle rages on.


	51. Council of War

****

**3 rd Month of 299 A.C. Riverrun**

**Lord Eddard Stark**

The battle had been a fierce one, the Lannister and Crowlander army had fought fiercely, determined to prove a point. Ned had watched as many good men had died trying to stop the enemy from growing more powerful, and more in control. They had done well, the fight had been had and pushed, and though Jaime Lannister had come close to clashing blades with him, eventually, the man had been forced to retreat, a sight he thought he would never see. An army commanded from the south by Lord Mathis Rowan had arrived in time to aid them, for there was a risk of them being overwhelmed despite their superior numbers. It was a relief, though the Kingslayer had escaped, and Ned knew, he just knew that there would be more enemies on their tail before this war was over and done with. He could feel it in his bones, as well as in his body, there were aches and pains throughout his body but he knew he had to push forward, he could not show any weakness now. The war council was in session, and as its commander he would need to lead it without any hesitation.

Ned clears his throat and looks around the solar, taking in the expression on every man’s face, seeing the tiredness in Edmure’s, the hope in Lord Umber’s, the desperation in Lord Domeric’s and the anger in Lord Bracken and Blackwood’s. He takes a breath then speaks. “We have fought two battles now, three if you count the first battle for Riverrun. We have forced the Lannisters back on two occasions, and have significantly damaged their army and their pride. But they will be back. So long as Tywin Lannister remains out in Harrenhal, they will keep sending probing forces to attack us.”

There are murmurs of agreement and then Lord Blackwood speaks. “What do you suggest we do then my lord? There are enemies of Riverrun out in the Riverlands still mustering their strength to come to Baratheon aid. And whilst Lord Rowan’s presence here is a boon, we all know the Tyrells will be hot on his heels.”

Ned nods, seeing the sense in what Blackwood is asking. He looks at Lord Rowan then and asks. “My lord, what was the situation when you left the Reach? We had heard that there was a lot of fighting going on there, with the Tyrells struggling to peg all the gaps that had opened. Is that still the case?”

Lord Rowan’s face is covered in scars, one of his eyes was taken out during a fight, and now he speaks solemnly. “It was raging when I took my men and led them here. The Tyrells are on my tail, but I do not think they will come to fight for the Baratheons.”

That surprises Ned. “What do you mean by that? I would have thought that their connection to Renly Baratheon would have forced them to fight for the Baratheons.” The fact that he is not fighting for the Baratheons is in itself a strange thought for Ned, but it is one he is slowly coming to accept.

Rowan smiles slightly. “The Tyrells might know Lord Renly, but they are not tied to him. They are fighting for their own interests.” It is a simple statement but it makes a lot of sense.

Ned considers this statement, before turning the conversation onto matters they can control and account for. “Lord Domeric, how many men did you count as being our prisoners?”

Lord Domeric Bolton, the new Lord of the Dreadfort, after his father died some time ago, the man has just started to recover from whatever happened to him under the control of his bastard brother, and he still has the look of a haunted man on his face. His voice though is calm when he replies. “There were some seventy prisoners that were of value that were taken my lord. And they have all said the same thing.” The man pauses to take a sip of water, before he continues. “They all claim that there is some great plan coming. That Lord Tywin will have us before the year is done.”

Ned snorts at that, seeing it for the posturing that it clearly is. Lord Tywin’s army is being whittled down to the barest of numbers, his son had to flee the battle, and the west is now burning under Robb’s command. He takes a moment to gather his thoughts and then he says. “I see. And were any of these men who speak of Lord Tywin’s great plan, men who could be ransomed off?” that is not something he takes pleasure in, but he knows that wars cost money and a ransom would go a long way to filling up their coffers.

Therefore, he is slightly disappointed when Lord Domeric shakes his head. “No my lord, none who would gather enough money to make it worthwhile for the war chest.”

Ned nods in acceptance at this, before turning to Lord Bracken and saying. “My lord, you know more about the traitorous Riverlords than anyone else here.” He holds his hand up as Bracken goes to protest. “That is not a question your loyalty my lord, it is merely a statement. So tell us, what do you think they will do next?”

Lord Bracken thinks for a moment, his face pulling into a slightly comical expression, eventually the man speaks, his words slow and thoughtful. “I believe they will gather near Harrenhal or Castle Darry. And from there they will march out, setting traps along the way. I do not think they will do what Ser Jaime did, but they will do something much more likely to draw support. They will draw on the fear of an invading army, and draw people in that way.”

Ned considers this for a moment before turning to Edmure, his Goodbrother looks exhausted, and frankly Ned cannot blame him, between dealing with the war, an ailing father and a scared young family, Ned would be tired as well. He looks at his Goodbrother and asks. “Do you think you might be able to counteract that my lord?”

The man nods. “Aye. I think that should be no problem whatsoever.”


	52. Griffin

**3 rd Month of 299 A.C. Somewhere in the Stormlands**

**Lord Jon Connington**

The King had returned Griffin’s Roost to him and to his house, rewarding him for his loyal service, the usurper’s brother was a prisoner in Griffin’s Roost, and half the Stormlands was fighting for their rightful King, and yet there was a nagging feeling in Jon’s mind. The bells of the Stoney Sept continued to ring, their ringing was growing ever louder, it seemed as though it would not stop. Not until the King was sat on the Iron Throne, though Jon wondered if they kept ringing because they were fighting for Aerys son not Rhaegar’s. King Viserys was a proud man, strong and capable in a way Aerys had never been, but he was not Rhaegar, and Jon worried over how the King did not seem to care about that. The bells kept ringing and his thoughts continued to grow more and more muddled as the days went on. All that was there to relieve him from that burden was the fact that the King had sent him on a raiding mission. Word had come of Robert Baratheon marching to the Stormlands, gathering followers as he went, and so Jon had been sent out from Griffin’s Roost with some five hundred men to hit and run, draw Baratheon into the trap.

The Baratheon army had not been that hard to find, a great sprawling of men and tents and pillars, and so many other things Jon is surprised someone else hadn’t come to get them. Though he supposes it is understandable, after all Robert Baratheon is the crowned King of Westeros, for all he is a usurper, and men tend to follow the gods. Whichever ones those might be. That is a bitter thought, Baratheon got to the throne over Rhaegar’s corpse as well as those of his children. The man does not deserve the throne, and yet he sits it and with Lannister gold and Florent treachery has held it for a long time. That comes to an end today, Jon is determined to silence the bells that continue to ring in his head, knowing that the only way he can do that is through dealing with Baratheon. His lance is strong in his hand as he moves forward, his men at his side and behind him, heavy horse and foot, not archers, not for this. This is merely a raid, a hit and run, though if Baratheon comes chasing, Jon will definitely engage him.

The drums of war sound as they move into position, he counts down from seven, and watches as his men get into position. They are trained and prepared, ready to make a move when the time comes. A moment passes, a heartbeat, and then another, then they are advancing through the course. His horse moves steadily under his command, making the time in little to nothing. Onward they go, his lance is held steady, the enemy turns to face them and is met by a smash as lances filter through. Jon does not relish the sound of men screaming in agony, but it needs to be done, they move forward, and he continues pushing through. His lance is strong, his grip is solid, onward they go, pushing, always pushing, there is not much more that can be done about this, onward they go, pushing and pushing. More and more men are falling, his lance remains in his hand until it is not, and then he is drawing his sword and they are engaging in proper knightly conduct. Through it all they ride, Jon’s heart beating at a steady pace, through it all they go, swinging and hacking, cutting, ducking and dodging. Through it all they go, and more and more men come toward them. He swings and cuts, but presses onward.

Men are strange creatures, they will argue and bicker with one another, but when presented with a common enemy they will band together and fight to the bitter end. That is what is happening now, these men that are stanging with the usurper are fighting for him for some false sense of loyalty and hope that the man will give them something that is not his to offer. Still the fighting rages on, and Jon’s sword is dripping red by the time he can come up for air once more. He finds the man he is looking for in the throng, Baratheon armour giving him away, his stag antlered helm another. Jon roars, and moves through to meet the man. He comes face to face with the man after watching him kill a friend of Jon’s. Anger and grief spur him on as he swings his sword. Their dance begins, heated and frazzled all at once. Onward they go, swinging and blocking, dancing around one another on their horses. They fight and fight, and Jon can feel his body begin to protest under the weight of all of this. The bells keep ringing in his head, but he manages to push the ringing down as he cuts a dent on the man’s armour, the man swings his hammer and Jon manages to avoid it for a while.

The fight continues around them, but to Jon there is only him and the man who took his love from him. The man who caused the chaos around them to happen. The man who must die for the bells to stop tolling in his head. He keeps fighting, even though his body is crying out for peace and a chance for life. He keeps going, swinging his sword, blocking hammer blows, and feeling his body groan and break under him. He keeps going, his sword is breaking, he is breaking, but he keeps going. Baratheon smiles then, a sight that angers Jon even more, and he roars a challenge, and yet Baratheon laughs, and then Jon knows why. His armour is covered in blood, the blow comes, and the lights go out, the bells keep ringing, and then he sees his love, dressed as he was the last time he saw him. Rhaegar looks at him a sad smile playing on his face, he tastes the kiss, and then screams as he sees Rhaegar fall.


	53. White Dragon

****

**3 rd Month of 299 A.C. Griffin’s Roost**

**Prince Jon Targaryen**

The war was going reasonably well, half the Stormlands was under his uncle the King’s control, they had Renly Baratheon as a prisoner, and they were winning the fighting in the Riverlands. And yet, Jon could not help but remember the battle that had cost his uncle Benjen his life, he could not help but remember seeing his uncle fall and die, held in the arms of his love Lord Raymun. He could not help but remember the anger and grief little Lord Lyman had expressed when being told of his father’s death. They had suffered losses, the Dornish were coming up through the marches, to join their host to the King’s, but they were taking their time. Prince Quentyn and Prince Oberyn apparently arguing as they progressed. The King had grown quiet and silent since that battle, since his conversation with Renly Baratheon. He had sent Jon Connington out on a scouting mission, and that had ended badly. Now the usurper was coming to face them, and Jon was nervous.

Still, he tries to hide his nervousness in front of Dany, she is his wife and she and their child do not need to be burdened unnecessarily, he knows things will work out fine, he has full faith in his uncle, the King, but still he is human. He holds his wife’s hand and speaks then. “So what have you been doing since last we spoke my love?”

The question is peaceful and well meaning, and he thanks his lucky stars that his wife replies straight away, it does him good to not hear the buzzing in his ears. “Well, I’ve been spending time with your mother, as well as with the other ladies of Viserys court. You know there are a few who think that your mother and Ser Desmond will become a thing before the war is over.”

Jon hums at this, he is not sure what to make of that. He wants his mother to be happy, he knows that it cannot have been easy for her being a young mother and having to raise him as well as Dany, when she herself was growing up as well. Ser Desmond is a nice man as well; someone Jon has come to trust over the years. Still there is a part of him that finds it strange. “I suppose it would be nice.” He replies. When he sees the raised eyebrow his wife directs at him, he smiles and elaborates. “I want mother to be happy. And if Ser Desmond makes her happy then so be it.”

Dany smiles, and as always he feels his heart stutter at the sight. “That’s good. I know she would want your blessing for it.”

Jon laughs a little at that, the thought of his mother needing anyone’s blessing is laughable. “Aha, she would likely just marry him, if she truly felt the need to. Though I think that the King would give his consent regardless.” He pauses a moment and looks at his wife and asks her softly. “Do you know what is wrong with the King, Dany? I have not seen him for some time.”

His wife shrugs a shoulder. “I do not know. All I know is that he spends a lot of time with the red woman. But I do not think he listens to her.”

Jon nods, though he cannot help the fleeting feeling of panic that crosses into his thoughts. There is something about the Red Woman that both intrigues him and terrifies him. That the King has been spending time with her is something that can only have negative consequences. “Do you think she looks to him for a use or something else?” he asks.

His wife’s eyebrows extend up her face and she asks. “What do you mean?”

Jon takes a breath and runs a hand through his hair. “I’m not sure. I just get the feeling that that woman is here for some reason that cannot be good. The fire was the reason we lost the throne the first time. I do not think it is a good thing that she is here now that we are trying to get the throne back.”

His wife nods. “I can see what you mean. But my love, Viserys is not like our father, he is stronger than that. He is pure, and he will do what he thinks is best for us as a whole.”

Jon nods. “I know.”

His wife leans up to kiss his cheek then and whispers against his skin. “I know you do. But enough about that. What do you think we should call our child?”

Jon looks at the bulge, where their child is growing inside his wife, and marvels at the fact that there is a life there, that he and Dany are going to be parents, his heart breaks briefly at the thought that his uncle, the King is not married and is not a father, but then that is replaced by a sense of wonder when his wife places their joined hands to her stomach and he feels the child kick. He looks at his wife, his jaw slackened, and then he says. “I…. I…I do not know; what do you think we should call our child my love?”

Dany giggles a little at the expression on his face, but replies all the same. “I think that if it’s a girl we should call her Rhaenys, for the woman who gave birth to our line.”

Jon hums in agreement seeing the sense in that, and then he asks. “And if it is a boy?”

Dany looks thoughtful here, and then she replies. “Well either Viserys, for the King, or perhaps Jaehaerys?”

“Not Aegon?” Jon japes, harkening back to something his wife used to say when they were children.

His wife laughs and swats playfully at his shoulder. “No, not Aegon. I think there have been more than enough Aegons in our family.”

Jon smiles down at his wife as he sees a man rushing into the castle and go scurrying off to where the King resides, bearing the livery of House Connington. He looks back to his wife and replies. “I quite agree. A new beginning for a second chance.”


	54. A King Without A Queen

**3 rd Month of 299 A.C. Griffin’s Roost**

**King Viserys III Targaryen**

Renly Baratheon had proven a useful hostage, in that he had given them information that would have otherwise taken time to collect and information, as Viserys had long ago learned was the key to remaining alive. Still, there were certain things that Renly Baratheon could not provide the answers to, certain things that none could provide the answer to. Well, no one apart from Melisandre, the red woman, she seemed to have those answers, Viserys had seen proof of that. But that power frightened him, it was not natural, having that ability, it was not normal, and he was not sure he was entirely comfortable using that power. There were certain things that one should think of, and the deepest part of his heart’s desire was one such thing. Bringing someone back from the dead, well that was against the laws of nature, and no matter how much he might secretly want it, Viserys was not such a big fool as to not understand the consequences such a thing would have, for all of them. And so he continued to suffer on, in silence. He would not damn others to be haunted by his ghosts.

Whilst he believed that that was the right way to go, it seemed that Jon Connington had not believed that. Viserys looks at the lords gathered in the solar for this meeting, and sighs. “Tell me what the messenger said again.”

Ser Jonothor who has stood by his side through everything speaks once more, his words tired and drawn. “Lord Connington led the men given to him by you Your Grace, and from there he met Robert Baratheon’s host. They engaged in combat, and Lord Connington and the usurper met in single combat. Connington was killed, and Baratheon emerged more victorious.”

Viserys closes his eyes for a brief moment, Connington had been a good man and true, but he knows that somewhere deep down the man’s ghosts were what had led him, mainly the ghost of Rhaegar. That brother of his who everyone seemed to be comparing him to. He takes a breath, opens his eyes and then speaks in response to the news. “How many of the men Connington took out with him remain?”

Ser Jonothor looks uncomfortable but he speaks all the same. “Very few Your Grace, maybe around one hundred. And even then some turned their cloaks and went over to the usurper, whilst others are straggling their way back here.”

Viserys sighs, the news is bad, terrible even, but it can be salvaged. He looks around him and then asks. “And where exactly is the usurper’s army now? They cannot be far away from here. Not with the traitors who defected leading them to our position.” He sees an expression of fear cross over his nephew’s face, and knows that the boy is thinking about Daenerys.

“The usurper’s position is currently not known Your Grace. Our scouts have not been able to locate them. Though that is likely because the traitors are able to track our scouts’ movements and are leading the army through positions that are difficult to get through without prior knowledge.” Ser Jonothor supplies.

Viserys nods, it is a weak excuse, but it is one nonetheless and they look as if they might need it now, more so than ever. “What of the Dornish? Where are their spears and their horse? Are they any closer?”

This time it is Lord Cafferen who speaks, his voice tired. “They are still unsighted Your Grace. Personally, I think it would be most unwise to trust them to come to our aid any time soon.”

Viserys accepts the thoughts of his lord with a mere nod. He had sensed some bitterness in the Dornish after Arianne’s death, a death that haunts him still, and the divisions between Martell and Yronwood had grown larger with Quentyn Martell’s supposed preference and his marriage. That was something Viserys had had to agree to, to get the brat to march his army. Viserys knew there would be a reckoning with Martell when this was all said and done, but for now, they could only accept that this was their situation. He takes a breath then looks at Jon. “How prepared are the men? How many do we have?” he asks, though he already knows the answer.

His nephew gives the expected answer. “The men are as prepared as they will ever be Your Grace. They are hungry after that last battle, they want revenge for their fallen friends and their family. They want to do you proud. We have enough heavy horse to provide a challenge, and we have archers a plenty as we do infantry. We do not lack for men Your Grace.”

Viserys nods. “Very well. I want a patrol set out and I want men prepared to leave from the castle on a moment’s notice. I will not be caught unaware by Baratheon.” He sees his lords nod and then turns to his nephew. “Jon, you shall command the first wing. Lead the charge and make sure that it is clean and pure. We do not want more losses. Or at least more losses than are necessary.” His nephew nods at this, and Viserys continues. “Lord Cafferen you shall command the right wing. Come in sharp and after the third pass that Jon has made.” The man nods eager to prove himself. Then he looks at Ser Oswell and says. “You shall command the final centre Ser. You know what needs to be done.” The Kingsguard knight nods his head in acceptance.

There is a brief pause as they all digest the fact that they are approaching a crucial battle, it will not be a pleasant one, but it is one that needs to happen, perhaps then he might advance for the throne, and what is rightfully his. After a moment, Jon speaks, his voice questioning. “What of your marriage Your Grace?”

Viserys looks surprised, but the question had been planned beforehand. He looks at his nephew and then says. “An envoy has been sent out to find the Dayne host, as an envoy has been sent out to the Tyrell host. I shall see which one responds first.”


	55. Stags

****

**4 th Month of 299 A.C. Somewhere in the Stormlands**

**King Robert I Baratheon**

Renly was a prisoner of the dragon brat. That was the thought that had kept Robert going through the pains of a campaign, his little brother was a prisoner of a dragon and that was something that needed to change. He would not allow his brother to remain a prisoner, no more than he could allow a dragon to live. One way or another Renly would be freed from his prison and put into his rightful place as Lord of Storm’s End. They had defeated Connington and his little rag tag army, and from the men who had turned their cloaks, Robert had learned more about the dragon army than he might otherwise have done. What he had learned had filled him with confidence. The Dornish army the dragon was waiting for, was somewhere else, far away, and most likely not going to be arriving anytime soon, and the rest of his men were broken and divided amongst themselves. Whilst, Robert’s own men were strong and united, the fight was going to be a good one. He could tell by the smell of fresh air, and wet grass underneath his horse’s hooves. It was going to be a fight to remember.

Most men are fighting with their lances, but he prefers to fight straight with his hammer. Knowing as he does that a lance was never his strong point, and this is a battle that he cannot afford to be slack in. This is a battle he needs to fight and win properly. This battle could potentially decide the rest of the war. Or it could end it. If he kills the dragon, the rebels will not have anyone to rally around and perhaps he might be able to bring sense to Ned and Lord Hoster, and those other fools. He takes a breath, preparing for the inevitable fight to come. He steels himself, and prepares for the fight, another breath and then he is leading his horse down the slope, his army following, the knights of the Kingsguard at his side. They ride onward, pushing through the wetness of the ground, determined to fight true and proper. The crown is not a weight on his now, it is something else, it is something pure. Onward they go, his heart hammers, he sees dragon banners floating in the sky, and they anger him. Onward they go, his hammer raised, men with their lances raised, the enemy comes toward them as well.

His hammer meets someone’s armour and the feeling of caving some cunt’s chest in lights a fire underneath him. It gets him going, it fills him with fire and strength. Onward, onward, that is all there is to this. He swings his hammer and more men fall, their bodies crumbling underneath the sheer power of his hit. He has missed this, the feeling of being able to swing and hit, and not care about anything else. This was what he was meant for, not ruling, not for settling petty disputes, merely for fighting, merely for ensuring that everything was solid. Meant to ensure that the balance in the world was righted, that there was fighting and there was nothing else in his way. His hammer is his way in the world, a guiding light that does not end. It continues. Men fall and die around him, and through it all he remains. Strong and determined like he was that day on the Trident. Onward, ever onward, swinging his hammer, crushing men and breaking their horses. Doing all within his power to keep going. It is not pretty, but then nothing about fighting is. It is not supposed to be pretty, it is not an art, it is a state of mind.

This crush around him is something he relishes. When he sees dragon banners and a crown glinting in the sunlight, he finds his true target. He bellows a command, and his men follow him, they cut a bloody path through the fools standing in their way, as they make their way to the dragon. Viserys Targaryen wears black armour, with red decorating it. Rhaegar’s armour, but also not Rhaegar’s armour. They stare at one another and then their fight begins. The dragon is a good fighter, he fights not with a sword as his fool brother did, but with a mace, and they clash and clang against one another. Viserys Targaryen is a good fighter, but he is not a great one and soon Robert finds himself pushing through defence after defence, forcing the dragon onto the back foot. He can taste victory, it is on the tip of his tongue, it is there, a presence in the room, something that cannot be mistaken. The dragon boy clearly knows this as well, Robert can tell he does from the way he shirks and shakes, but still the boy keeps fighting, keeps swinging and moving. They dance through it all, blood and gore falling down around them, but none are able to stop them. This dance of theirs continues through everything, through pain and grief, through tragedy and triumph, onward they go as their men die around them.

Something changes then, he does not notice it at first, but then it hits him all at once. The dragon is gone from his sight, and there are a wall of bodies between them. “Coward!” he bellows, his rage making spit come out and make his helm wet, but the dragon does not react as his brother would have done. The dragon disappears, and all he can is curse and swear, and kill any who get in his way. He tries to make his way to where the dragon is, but before he can do that, the vipers appear, conveniently at the right time for them and their King. Their pretender. His armour begins chafing his body, and he kills one and then another of them, before finding himself having to ride away, lest he be swept up in the tide of it all. It is not something he likes, but he makes a promise to himself, this will not be the end, he will fight the dragon pretender once more, and the next time they fight, he will win.


	56. Injured Viper

**4 th Month of 299 A.C. Camp in the Stormlands**

**Prince Oberyn Martell**

Arianne was dead, he had buried her himself. The thought of his niece’s cold body lying there before him was something that kept him up at night, they still hadn’t found who had done the deed, who had slipped the poison into her drink, though Oberyn had his suspicions but did not have enough proof to bring before the King. Quentyn, was now the ruling Prince of Dorne, and was doing his best to try and make things work, but as always, he was failing. Arianne might have been hot headed but she knew how to work and how to play, her brother did not. Quentyn was someone who tried too hard to be someone he was not, and that was leaving a bad impression on their lords, and their bannermen. Oberyn could see it when he looked at them, could see it in the way their eyes flickered to him before they did whatever it was Quentyn asked of them. It was not a good thing, but his nephew was not willing to listen to him, preferring the company of the Yronwoods over that of his family. There was tension and it was beginning to show.

The battle had ended with a stalemate, the usurper had been forced to retreat, but he had been injured, as had Oberyn. And now as he rests in his bed, he looks at his nephew and sighs. “Quentyn, I am telling you, we need to make all haste to Griffin’s Roost, we must show the King that we have not forgotten our pledge of fealty. Delaying here will do nothing.”

He sees his nephew’s shoulder straighten and sighs, knowing full well what that means. “Prince Jon is still here, seeing to his wounded. I will not leave when there is a Prince of the Blood here, and not when some of my best commanders are still wounded.”

Oberyn sighs, wincing slightly at the sharp pain that shoots through his ribs as he does so. “Quentyn, you don’t understand. Prince Jon can remain here and get his men seen to, he has that luxury, you do not. Arianne’s death has left us off balance with regards to the King and the alliance. We must show him that we have not forgotten the promises we made. We were late coming to the fight; we must not be late to shore up the castle he has come to call his home for now.”

His nephew looks somewhat angry at the reminder of the delay, but then he only has himself to blame for that. “I will not move from here until my commanders are fit and healthy. We cannot go to the King with our commanders half dead.”

Oberyn sighs, his nephew has a valid point, that was something Doran, who had only fought in one war before, and their father, who had fought in countless battles and wars, had always said. Never go to the King without the commanders ready and prepared, but this time, Oberyn suspects there is another reason for his nephew’s reluctance. Cautiously he broaches that reason. “I do not think the King will mind that it is you showing up and not me Quentyn. You are the Prince of Dorne, and you are his ally and subject. You need to show your face.”

His nephew looks at him, a stern eye looking him over, as if trying to assess just how badly injured he truly is. Whatever his nephew sees must satisfy him for Oberyn sees him nod to himself before he speaks. “I know that. But I do not know how to approach him. Arianne and father did. They were the ones who negotiated the alliance, as were you. How am I supposed to deal with all of this, when we do not even know who murdered Arianne?”

Oberyn feels an odd sensation at that, he sees a strange expression cross his nephew’s face at the mention of Arianne, but writes it off to grief, and instead says softly. “Quentyn, you cannot let that dictate you every action. You must move forward. This is war. We must make the move to show the King that we are still serious about supporting him. That Dorne is united in its support of him.”

And then in a statement that is so utterly Doran it makes his heart ache, his nephew looks at him and asks. “And what exactly are we to gain from this alliance now? Arianne is dead, we shall not have a Martell Queen, the man is no doubt going to try and get something more from us. How much more do we have to give him?” The words sound bitter coming out of his nephew’s mouth, and Oberyn has to look around to see that they are truly alone.

Once satisfied that they were alone, Oberyn looks at his nephew and says. “We have allies who would be indebted to us if we were to suggest a match with the King. The King needs a wife; he needs an heir from his own seed. We have bannermen who want their daughters married, suggest one of them to him and see what takes from there.”

His nephew considers this suggestion thoughtfully, his expression one completely reminiscent of one that Doran had worn many times. Eventually his nephew says. “Allyria Dayne would make a good match would she not? The Daynes have always been firm allies of ours, but recently they seem to have grown distant. Perhaps suggesting Allyria as a match could go a way to mending that.”

Oberyn nods in approval. “I think that would be a good way to Quentyn. One can never have too much favour with one house or another. The Yronwoods have had enough of your time, it is time someone else had it now.” He does not mean the words as a reproach but they come out sounding as such, and he finds that he can’t quite care enough to change his tone.

His nephew looks at him surprised, and then the man merely nods. “Aye. Well get well uncle, we shall need you in the moons to come.” Oberyn nods as his nephew walks out of the tent.

Once his nephew has gone, Oberyn looks out the corner of his eye and looks at Sarella and says. “Keep an eye on him.” He sees his daughter nod and then she disappears.


	57. Dreams of Fire

**5 th Month of 299 A.C. King’s Landing**

**Queen Cersei Lannister**

The words of the witch were coming true, war between stag and dragon had happened once more. Her husband had actually gotten himself into shape for this fight, something he had not bothered to do for many years. Whilst he had not been the man that he had been of their wedding, he was much thinner and more attractive compared to how he had been before, and Cersei felt a twinge in her legs where they had fucked once before he left. The war was raging around them, and Cersei felt nervous, her father and her husband had seen fit to name her imp of a brother as Hand in their absence, and given the fates of the two previous hands, Cersei was confident the imp would not last long. Though, her brother did seem more adept at playing the game than either Arryn or Stark, something she had to admit would probably give him more chances at survival than those two would have had. Something she was not happy about, but was willing to accept for the time being. They had a common enemy for now. It was that common enemy that had brought her to his solar, to talk.

Cersei looks at her brother now, takes a sip of wine and speaks. “So tell me brother, what word has there been from our father , out in the field as he is? What instruction has he given to you for defence of the city?” they both know that it is Lord Tywin who is in charge, even though Robert is the King, the man is fighting not ruling.

Her brother takes a moment to gather his thoughts before he replies. “We have five hundred men from the crownlands as well as the city watch, here to aid us in defence of the city should the dragons or their supporters try anything. Furthermore, the royal fleet remains firmly docked at port, Dragonstone holds firm as well. We are protected on the waters.”

“Even from the fleet the pretender had raised?” Cersei queries sceptically.

“Yes.” Her brother replies, and seeing her incredulous look, her brother elaborates. “Whilst that fleet is sizable, it is not going to be used for fighting. Instead it will be used for raiding, something the dragon pretender has ordered stopped since he landed in the Stormlands.”

Cersei is surprised by this, from what she has heard of this dragon pretender, he is ruthless and smart, similar to her father. “Well that does seem like a complete waste of a fleet. But then what else can you expect from a dragon? They do not know how to make use of the tools they have, otherwise Aerys would never have been removed from the throne.”

She can tell her brother is surprised by her candid tone, but she has reached the point in the day, where she frankly does not care that much anymore. Her brother takes his time to respond, but when he does, his words are careful and measured. “Indeed. Though I would think it would be foolish to underestimate the dragon pretender. He might have lost an experienced commander in Lord Connington, but he managed to capture Renly Baratheon and he beat back the King’s first advance.”

“He has the aid of many experienced commanders. Men who were thought dead, and men who have fought more wares than we have seen years on this planet brother.” Cersei responds matter of factly. “But do tell me, what more do you know of what the man is doing?”

Her brother looks at her carefully as if measuring her words for something that she herself does not know. Still, his reply is calm and measured. “He is looking for a wife I believe. The Dornish had offered Allyria Dayne, but Beric Dondarrion brought up the fact that the woman is betrothed to him, and the pretender had the common sense not to overrule that betrothal. Dayne and Dondarrion were married. And so the pretender remains unwed.”

That perks her interest. “So his heir remains the half Stark boy?” she asks curiously, knowing just how much that would have irked Robert.

“Yes.” Her brother replies simply. “And the boy’s wife is expecting any time soon I think. Our spies are working on dealing with that issue when it arises.”

Cersei nods in acceptance of this before asking. “The request has been sent to Highgarden and to where the Tyrells are camped has it not?”

“It has.” Her brother replies, she raises an expectant eyebrow then and her brother continues. “They have not yet given an answer but I think they will answer positively. They have more to gain from siding with us than they do from siding with the dragons. And of course, Mace Tyrell listens to his third born son, the offer of a position in the Kingsguard will be a tempting one for the boy. And having his daughter as a future Queen will always entice him more.”

Cersei nods, what her brother says is common sense, though with the Tyrells it is sometimes hard to tell. “And have the Tyrells managed to make it to father yet?”

Her brother shakes his head. “Not as far as father has told me. It seems the host commanded by Ser Willas is yet to have been sighted. Though there has been fights with Stark and his allies once more.”

Cersei perks up at that and asks. “And? What were the results of those fights?”

Her brother smirks in that infuriating way he has, before he finally speaks. “It would appear that Stark was wounded during one of the fights. Tully was also wounded. Ser Brynden that is, not his nephew or his brother. And the other lords are either dying or struggling to keep going.”

“And what does father plan on doing about the brat in the west?” Cersei asks thinking of Robb Stark and the chaos he is pressing on through the Westerlands.

At this her brother grimaces before replying. “Father will do what father does best on that front.”

 


	58. Councils

**5 th Month of 299 A.C. Kayce**

**Robb Stark**

The war continued to rage on, the Westerlands were a smoking ruin, every host that had been put in front of him, had been dealt with and truly removed. There were few pockets of resistance to the dragons and the direwolves now in the west. The main centre was at the Rock, that fortress that had resisted Robb’s initial assault and cost him a good few men. They were all learning and developing, but Robb was impatient to end this. To make sure that things were finished and the west was the King’s. And for that to happen, they needed to take the Rock. The question was how. How was one supposed to take a castle that had not fallen to siege or by storming it, or by trickery before. It was built into a rock, it was quite literally rock and mountain. To get into the castle without being killed by guard or by natural landmark, one would need to ensure that they either had an inside contact who could make good on promises, or they were to be extremely lucky, and after the first attempt, Robb was not so sure trying his luck would be a good thing, without the necessary precautions.

That was why he had called a war council, to meet with his captains and discuss the best possible way to move forward. They had been at Kayce for some time, and though hosts had come and been slaughtered, Robb knew his men were growing impatient. He takes a deep breath and then speaks. “We are nowhere near approaching full strength yet. But we must make a move now, for if we do not then we will have missed our chance. From what we know Lord Eddard managed to repel the attempt by Tywin Lannister and Jaime Lannister to cross into the West, leaving them heavily damaged. We have a chance. We must take advantage of it.” he pauses, looking around at the faces around him and seeing them all in agreement. He looks at his great uncle Ser Brynden and asks. “Ser Brynden you have been around this are far longer than most of us here. How would you go about doing what we need to?”

Ser Brynden Tully is an old man, but a definitive warrior and commander, and someone whom Robb is glad is fighting on the same side as him, otherwise, he knows he would never have stood a chance. The man takes a moment to consider the question and then he replies. “I believe we need to play on the fears of those close to the Rock and those within the castle itself. The place might be a fortress but those towns around it are not. March an army up to their gates and they will either surrender or fight. If they fight they will be destroyed.”

Robb nods seeing the sense in that, but then the memories of Lannisport and burning men and buildings comes into his mind and he has to fight hard to press them down. He looks at his uncle, trying hard to keep his expression neutral, eventually he says. “And what of Lannisport? There are plenty of small towns near the Rock that will open their gates or face destruction that is true. But Lannisport remains before us, nearly impenetrable, and they shall not fall so easily. How would you deal with them?”

His uncle looks at the map and then at him, his words are measured when he replies. “The walls are too thick and big to scale, and any men that are sent there would be found and shot off from the walls before they could make a reasonable effort. No, I think it is better to either ride in or count on subterfuge and Lannister greed to achieve what you wish from there.”

Robb considers this, wanting to get a second opinion he looks at Ser Malledon Peckledon, a knight who had joined his side and knows a fair bit about the west and Lannisters. “Ser Malledon, what do you have to say about all of this? Do you think there is a chance one can set lion against lion?”

Peckledon does not even hesitate in his response. “Oh most definitely. The Lannisters of Lannisport, have always been a lot that want more than their richer cousins are willing to give. Give them a chance to show themselves and they will. The price needs to be right.”

Robb thinks over this for a moment before nodding in response, he does not need to ask what the Lannisters of Lannisport would want, it is obvious. He looks around the room for a moment, before settling his gaze on Lord Mormont and asks. “How many men do we have for this my lord Mormont?”

Lord Jorah Mormont is a great bear of a man, who has been a guiding hand for Robb during the course of this war, and someone he has come to trust. The man takes a moment to think before he replies. “We have around three thousand men who are ready and rearing to fight my lord. I can have another five hundred ready within the day.”

Robb nods in approval, happy with that figure. “I believe that is good enough. We shall march out from here on the morrow. It is time we struck out and made our offers to those who would listen to them. Those who are foolish enough to remain with the lions of the Rock do not deserve to remain, that much has been made clear.” a murmur of agreement goes up at that, and then turning his attention to another matter, Robb looks at his uncle and asks. “What of the Ironborn, where are they now?”

His uncle is silent for a long moment and then he replies. “They are currently raiding along the western half of the Reach my lord. From what word my sources have received, there was a great battle with the Redwyne fleet. The Fleet was broken and the Ironborn lost a few commanders.”

“They have received our offer?” he asks.

“I would think so by now.” His uncle replies. Robb merely nods in response, dismissing the council to be prepare for a long journey tomorrow.


	59. Missing You

**6 th Month of 299 A.C. Griffin’s Roost**

**King Viserys III Targaryen**

The smell and sound of the battle with the usurper was strong in his memory. He remembers sweating as the fighting had progressed, he remembers being terribly afraid as they had fought and progressed. And then he remembers sheer terror as he had clashed with Baratheon. Mace and hammer going against one another in constant strokes, they had inflicted a lot of damage on one another, that much was true, but Viserys had always felt as if he were trailing behind. His Kingsguard had been preoccupied fighting the usurper’s false guard and they had come out successful there, but he had fought the usurper. They had come close, very close to killing one another, it was only the arrival of the Dornish that had spared the both of them. That was the thought that had kept him up at night, the thought that the usurper had nearly derailed everything he had worked for. He trained, and he fought and he practiced, the usurper was no doubt doing the same. They were both preparing for their next clash, but there was something missing in Viserys. There was a hole in him, and he needed it fixed.

He had asked Melisandre to do the thing she had said she could do, and so here he was now. Standing in front of a woman he had not seen since he was a little boy. But she was not really there, this was just a remnant of her. That was how Melisandre had explained it to him, but the woman before him looked exactly like his mother, there was a soft smile on her lips, there was love in her eyes, and he wanted to cry. He stands before her and listens as she speaks. “Hello Viserys, my sweetling. It has been a long time has it not?”

He stands and then moves to stand before her. “Mother.” He breathes, hardly daring to believe his eyes.

“You asked to speak with me and so I came.” His mother replies.

Viserys looks at her, a watery smile on his face. “What is this place?” he asks.

His mother looks at him a smile on her face, and she gestures to a chair next to her. “Sit down sweetling.” Viserys sits down in the offered chair and then looks back at his mother as she continues speaking. “As to what this place is, well it is a place where conversations like that this can happen.”

Viserys nods, not really understanding, but not really caring. He takes a breath then speaks. “I…I have so many questions. I don’t know where to start.”

His mother laughs, a joyful sound, and it makes his heart soar. She takes his hand in hers and says. “Well, why don’t we start with the war that is happening in your world.” A pause and then his mother continues. “You have done well Viserys, sweetling, you have done very well.”

Viserys looks at his mother and asks. “You think so?”

His mother nods. “I know so. You have brought our family back home; you have won more battles than your father or brother ever did. And you have helped raise two young children to the point where they are respectable members of the family. I am proud of you sweetling.”

Viserys feels tears spring to his eyes, and he blinks quickly, trying to get them out from him. “Thank you.” He clears his throat then speaks once more. “But, I do not know if it will be enough. The usurper is still out there, and his armies are still out there. I had him in my grasp a few moons ago, but I could not stop him. He fought and got away.”

His mother squeezes his hand and says. “You did your best sweetling. You fought with your all, and you survived. That is more than many could say. You are the leader of the movement my son. Do not forget that. The campaign lives and dies on your shoulders. But you need not let it consume you.”

Viserys looks at his mother and asks confused. “What do you mean?”

His mother sighs. “Rhaegar’s son and your sister are married. They married for love. But you are not married. And I do not think you really wanted to marry Arianne did you? So tell me sweetling, where is your love?”

“The Kingdom. That is my love. I need no woman to be my love, so long as I have the kingdom.” Viserys replies instantly.

He expects a smile from his mother, but instead is surprised when his mother sighs. “And that is the problem sweetling.” He looks at his mother in question, and she sighs once more before continuing. “It is not wrong to want to feel something for someone sweetling. Love is something that we all need. And you love your nephew and niece, I know that, everyone knows that, but you need to love someone who loves you just as much as you love them. and that is something you can only find in the arms of a special person. The Kingdom cannot love you in that way, and you would only get hurt. Marriage is nothing without love sweetling. Please, for my sake if not for your own find someone to love.”

Viserys looks at his mother, and he feels tear start to form in his eyes once more, he lets them fall this time. “I do not know if I can Mama.” He replies, his voice rough. “I do not know if I can.” He cries properly for the first time since he was a little boy. His mother pulls him to her then and he cries into her chest. “I don’t know if I can, and it scares me.” He sniffles and then keeps going. “I miss you Mama, I miss you so much. I…I…I would give anything to have you back, I do not want a throne if it means I could have you back.”

He pulls back and sees tears in his mother’s eyes then as well. “I know sweetling. But we both know I cannot come back. I have been gone for a long time now. You must return, but know that you are not going back alone.” His mother presses a finger to his chest, to his heart. “I will always be in your heart sweetling. I will always love you, no matter what happens.”

“But I don’t want to go.” He says, hating how pleading his voice sounds.

His mother laughs sadly. “But we both know you must. But go knowing that I love you, and that I am proud of you. So very, very proud of you, my little dragon.” His mother kisses his cheek then, and he feels the tears come pouring down his face, but he smiles at her all the same.

“I love you Mama, and I miss you.” He whispers as his mother smiles, the smile she reserved just for him, when it was the two of them. And he knows she knows.


	60. Taking Of The Rock

**6 th Month of 299 A.C. Westerlands**

**Robb Stark**

Lannisport’s walls were high and thick, but Lannister greed was more telling than anything else. They had faced a small struggle getting into the city, some of the city watch, or the red cloaks, had remained loyal to Tywin Lannister and had put up a stiff resistance. Lives had been shed, and Robb had taken a blow, but they had managed to right themselves. However, the people of Lannisport had put up more of a fight and there had been more fighting, bodies lined the streets, and there were fires over the city. It was not something Robb was proud of, but it had needed to be done. The lions in their Rock had sent another host down and they had fought. A stiff battle, swings and cuts. Robb was still trying to break through all of that. Something was breaking through him, but he and his men had kept going. They were not going to stop; they would either die or succeed in taking the Rock. Take the Rock and the world would shake. The pain he felt now was worth it, if it meant ending the threat of the lions once and for all.

Lions in gilded armour come charging down the slopes towards him and his men. Robb has his sword drawn prepared for the fight. His lungs are burning but he fights down that feeling, knowing that to succeed they must push themselves through unbearable consequences. A breath, then another, and then onward they go. His sword clangs loudly in the air, alongside the chorus of a thousand other swords and maces and hammers. Weapons are clanging against one another, welcoming the desolation that comes with their meeting. Men are grunting, screaming, desperate to come alive. Robb cuts down one man, his sword cleaving off the man’s arm, and then there is more. There are always more, they come, determined to fight, determined to break. Robb and the northmen with him hold firm. Cutting down one enemy and then another, doing all they can to break the westermen who are advancing with something akin to deep desired purpose.  His body aches, but he keeps going, swinging his sword, determined to end the threat that comes. His sword sings as it clashes with its brethren, Greywind is at his side, tearing into the enemy, inspiring fear in the way a man never could.

The songs that would be sung of this day were limitless. The might of the West was breaking itself against Robb and his men. They were being drawn out of their fortress for pride and for honour, and for many other things that he would not name, or rather could not name. He takes a breath, wondering when he might get the chance to next do so. Another breath, he is being greedy now, but he knows the value of air when it comes down to the press of carnage and horror. Another breath, then he is back into it. His men are around him, swinging their weapons, cutting through steel and bone, Robb’s sword is true as always, it swings and it connects, it brings blows and many other things that are not as pleasant. There are guts and bones and blood on the ground, on his armour, on his horse. They are everywhere, but onward they go. His sword swings, and it has a mind of its own. It sings, it roars, and it bellows, it continues. The fighting is rampant, it pushes through everything and nothing, making its way through hell as if there is nothing there to fight. But then there is everything to fight.

They move steadily onwards, bodies left behind, they are the only ones who matter now, the lions are being pushed back toward their rock, toward the thing that will break Tywin Lannister. It fills him with joy, he moves onward, leading the charge, doing the only thing he knows to do. Onward he goes, swinging his sword, Greywind at his side, barking and biting, tearing chunks out of the enemy as they progress. The rock comes into view, a great terrifying monster that could well end them all if it chose to. But it remains stationary, the men who came out of it, looking to come back and fight. This is something that might not be done, or it might be done, Robb finds that he cannot quite tell. Regardless they keep moving, they keep pushing, determined to find something that could keep them going. Onward, swinging their swords, their weapons, their anchors to life. Robb thinks of his wife and his unborn child, or a child that might’ve been born by now. He keeps going, blood and sweat dripping off of him, creating a pool around him. A pool that will no doubt continue, onward they go, swinging and hacking and cutting. Men are falling down, crying out for relief, for freedom, for something more than they have. And then the darkness comes and they are moving through the cave.

They are blind for a moment and he fears they will be picked off by men hidden within the cave, within the mountain, but then their guides come through and they are walking or trotting through the darkness. He hears the screams of battle coming from outside, and from further on, but they keep going, determined not to end themselves on broken lands. Through it all his heart hammers in his chest, a constant reminder that he is alive, that he has not died, somehow he has survived through everything that was thrown at him, and he is alive. That is something he still marvels at, that through everything, he has survived, it makes him want to laugh, but he remains silent. The rock changes and light emerges. Soon they come face to face with the last manifestations of Lannister glory, of their greed, and there are bodies all around them, a horrifying sight. But then a man comes forward, he is a boy really, he bends before Robb and says. “The Rock is yours, it belongs to the dragons now.” And the relief that rushes through him is something palpable.


	61. The Clash

**6 th Month of 299 A.C. Stormlands**

**King Viserys III Targaryen**

The day was finally here, it had been some time since they had fought Robert Baratheon and his army, but now they were going to engage in a second fight, and this time Viserys was confident that they would win. How could they not, when they had the element of strength and righteousness on their side. He had needed to speak with his mother, that had been something he had needed to do, to clear his thoughts and his mind, and once he had returned he had dealt with Melisandre, he had given her a choice, stop her heresy or die, she had chosen to die and so she had. A sword through the gut, her head decorating a spike atop Griffin’s Roost, something the new Lord Connington did not object to. Plans had been made, and now they were marching, determined to carry them out, he was cautiously optimistic, he knew Baratheon was a good fighter, but he was a reckless commander. The job of the first batch was to draw Baratheon in before destroying him. That brought a smile to his face, he knew there were other questions, such as who he should marry, but they were questions he could answer once the time was right. Right now he needed to focus on winning this battle.

The field of battle was one he had come to know quite well, the grass was soft, the wind was blowing softly as well, there was no rain, but it looked as if it might. Viserys was confident, the first rush of battle had happened under Jon, and even now Viserys could see the rush and throttle of battle, it was something that always made him wonder whether this was the right course. But then he would glance at the banners flying behind him, the three headed Targaryen dragon and he would feel his spirits lift, he would feel sense and purpose. He knew what he needed to do then, there was no need for lances, he and his men carried their weapons, he had Blackfyre strapped to his back, but he wielded a mace. He preferred the feeling of a heavy weapon in his hand. He preferred knowing he was directly responsible for taking a life, besides his brother had wielded a sword and it had done him no good whatsoever against Baratheon. The time had come to beat Baratheon at his own game, and so he spurs his horse on and begins the charge.

The song plays through his head, the song of dragons, of sadness and triumph, a song his mother used to sing to him when he was a babe, a song he sung to Jon and Dany when they were children. He sits a little straighter on his horse as they come closer to the enemy, his mace prepares for the fight. The crash comes, and with it, comes the first sign of progress. His mace smacks a man down, another goes flying, and a third goes roaring through the sky. He roars his relief and his victory, they continue to ride, swinging and fighting, his heart beats heavily in his chest, they move forward, his mace is singing, it is singing for joy, for the fighting that has come. All around him men are fighting, all around him men are dying, and he is there, moving through all of them, nothing more than a giant, nothing more than a man, nothing more than their King. He bellows his challenges, he bellows his victories as the men before him fall, as the stags dip their banners before him in the light. Strength flows through his veins, he rides onward, swinging his mace, doing what he can to keep the men alive, they ride onward, as little drops of rain begin to fall on the ground.

The drums are beating in tandem with his heart, they are following his breath, his very vision is the melody they are playing. The song continues, and the giant comes towards him. The usurper, the man who killed Rhaegar, who stepped over the bodies of Aegon and Rhaenys to take the throne. The steel and blood that has been shed has been because of this man, the usurper, Robert Baratheon who owes his life to the throne he sits, to the family he hates. Their weapons meet in a clash, sparks fly, strength versus brain. Onward they fight, pushing against one another as hard as they can, his arms hurt, his lungs burn, he is the last, but he will not fall, he will not fail, he will keep going. His mace pushes through it all, cutting and digging in deep. They fight, and more and more energy comes from it all, they are cutting their way through one another. Baratheon will not give, but neither will he, he is not Rhaegar, he will not falter he will not fade, he will keep going, he will win.

Dragons will never lose to stags, to lions, to anyone, never again will they lose. He roars an oath and pushes forward, swinging his mace, swinging for all he is worth. He pushes onward, digging deep within himself, thinking of his mother, thinking of her words, thinking of his promise, he thinks of Rhaegar, he thinks of his father, he thinks of Jon and Dany, and he thinks of the home he has not seen since he was a child. He roars, and the man before him roars as well, they meet in a clash of steel, of mace and hammer, their dance continues, they break through it all. Viserys wants to sleep, but he knows he cannot, he cannot sleep until this is all said and done. He must keep going, he has to keep going. Baratheon fights back hard, and Viserys can feel his arms crying out for relief, he can feel his chest wanting to rest, he can feel everything in him screaming for relief, but he will not stop, he will keep going until Baratheon is gone. Baratheon roars at him, but then the man’s roaring stops, Viserys hits him in the chest, hits his hammer out of his hand and then keeps hitting him. For all he has lost, Viserys hits, and he hits and hits. Eventually, he stops, and Baratheon looks at him, he says something but Viserys does not hear it. Baratheon falls to the ground, Viserys stops, the whole world, Viserys looks at Baratheon, and then he lifts his mace into the air and roars, the song of the dragon.


	62. Final Fight

**7 th Month of 299 A.C. Somewhere in the Riverlands**

**Lord Eddard Stark**

Robert was dead, word had come from the stormlands, his former friend had been killed fighting against King Viserys, the man’s younger brother Renly being named the new Lord of Storm’s End. Ned felt strange thinking about it, his friend was dead, but his friend had been dead for a long time, in a sense it was a relief for him, his friend no longer survived, and they could move on with life. Perhaps they might actually be able to do something positive for the kingdoms. Perhaps they might move on and make things right, make things how they were supposed to have gone at the end of the rebellion. Ned knew he would need to be more involved if they were to have any chance of actually achieving any of that. And so he was beginning to resign himself to a life in the south, at least for the time being. At least Robb was safe, his eldest son had brought the army he had taken west back with him, having taken the Rock, that was something that filled Ned with pride. His son was a successful commander, and so Ned had felt comfortable giving his son command over his own part of the host.

The divisions in the rest of the kingdom were evident. There were lords fighting for them from both the west, the riverlands and the Vale, whilst there were lords from those kingdoms fighting for the Lannisters. It was going to be chaotic, Ned knew the King and his men were coming up as well, the fight was going to be something hectic, something bigger than the Trident, and he was not sure what to make of it all. Regardless, he was armoured and mounted atop his horse, prepared to engage in battle. The fighting was beginning, horns were sounding, a direwolf howled somewhere in the distance. He felt a shiver run down him, a breath passed, then another, then they were riding on. Ice was in his hands, he felt determined, Robert was gone, now there was a clear enemy for him to fight, there would be no hiding this time. Tywin Lannister would get his due, revenge would be had. Onward they rode, determination filled the air, they were all fighting to end the war now, and so onward they rode. The clash begins and swords are drawn, blood is shed, and Ned howls as his life comes before him. Anger fills his being, onward he rides, swinging his sword taking out one man and then another, then another. Onward they ride, breaking through circles of protection through it all they go.

Men are falling around him, his sword is cutting men, taking their lives and reducing them to nothingness, breaking them and building them up again. It is a strange thing, knowing that he is responsible for giving, sparing and taking a life. Men are crawling around him, there is no organisation to this battle, it is pure chaos, and that is fine for him. He is finding that in everything apart from war he prefers order, in war, there is chaos, and he finds he does well in it. He keeps moving, swinging his sword, cutting one man and then another down, breaking them against the press of armour and steel. Men are such strange things, but that does not matter now, nothing matters half so much as advancing through and ending this. Tywin Lannister will not surrender, not if he is defeated, the man will need to be killed, and so Ned keeps moving through the fog, through the chaos, looking for the man. Kill Tywin Lannister and the war will end, and then perhaps he can return home. He keeps fighting, swinging his sword, breaking men, and tearing them down. Keep moving forward, that is what he says to himself, just keep moving forward, break through it all and keep going. No matter how badly his arms hurt, or his back screams in protest at the exertions, he needs to keep moving forward, he needs to keep pressing.

He feels as though his mind might split, his head hurts, but he keeps moving. He knows who he needs to find to get the war to stop, to end the fighting. He looks for Tywin Lannister but he cannot find the man, he cuts down men who wear sigils of houses he had counted as friends not long ago, their lords deciding to fight for their loyalty to a King who was not a King. He sighs, he would have been like them, had he not gone south and seen the truth of what Robert was. Fighting alongside Robert would have brought nothing more than simple suffering, he needed to think of his family and what they stood to gain, and so he tried and then when it became clear Robert was not the way forward, he changed. He left and now his friend is dead, and a boy sits the throne, they move forward, he swings his sword, and he sees Tywin Lannister moving closer and closer. The man seems to be looking as if he is going to flee. Ned growls and spurs his horse onwards, his men following him, they cut down any who get in their way, and Lannister sees them coming.

Lannister looks as if he might flee, and Ned spurs his horse on, pushing forward, growling his determination, more wolf than man in that moment. Lannister men fall before his sword, and men are pushing forward, looking like lambs to the slaughter. Ned finds himself laughing at that, determined to break through it all. Men fall around him, his men, lions, it makes no difference, they are out of the way, and many others are going to be cut down in the process. Lannister looks as if he might flee, but he does not, he remains there looking calmly at Ned, as Ned approaches, the man raises his sword and they fight, their swords clanging against one another, but Lannister is not a fighter, he is barely a commander. Ice sings as it cuts Lannister dry, and Ned laughs as Lannister falls, he steps off his horse and removes the man’s head, roaring his triumph, the heat of battle making him reckless and wolf blooded.


	63. Broken Lion

**10 th Month of 299 A.C. King’s Landing**

**Ser Jaime Lannister**

There was a shadow hanging over his head. The battle against Eddard Stark and his allies had gone wrong. Jaime had fought as best he could, as he had done throughout his life and throughout the war. He had fought and fought, but it had not been enough. His father was dead, his uncle was dead, there was a lot of chaos and carnage, and he had failed. Just as he had failed Rhaegar and Aerys a long time ago. It was fate he thought, fate was conspiring to prevent him from succeeding at life, and now he was merely here, a prisoner in the black cells, his hands were aching, he was broken, he did not know what had happened to Cersei or to her children, he did not know what had happened to Tyrion. All he knew was that he was a prisoner, and that King’s Landing had fallen. Gods alone knew what else might happen, if he was being honest with himself, Jaime wanted it all to end, he wanted to rest, but he was terrified of what he might see should he close his eyes. The ghosts of the past would surely judge him, and that was not something he wanted to be faced with, and so he remained awake, fighting through everything alive.

The door to his cell opens and light filters in on a torch. He squints at the light and sees a man who looks for the world like Rhaegar had done, but he wears a crown, and armour where as his brother never really had. The man speaks, his voice soft, two white knights standing behind him. “Ser Jaime Lannister. Heir to Tywin Lannister, and a knight of the Kingsguard. Known as the Kingslayer.” The man stops and Jaime looks at him taking in the sight of the defined jaw, and the stubborn set of the man’s shoulders, seeing Queen Rhaella in the man as much as Aerys.

He bows his head. “Your Grace. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

The King of Westeros snorts. “Ah, there it is. I remember that.” The man pauses forcing Jaime to look up at him confused. The King elaborates. “I remember you when you first joined the Kingsguard. We used to play together, do you remember? You were always kind to me.”

Jaime looks at the man and sees the boy who was once there, who would always want to play with him, and he replies. “I remember Your Grace.”

The King looks at him, something akin to anger and pity in his expression. His voice is still soft when he speaks. “I remember when the war broke out, you were there and you told me everything would be alright. I remember when Rhaegar came back, you asked if you could fight alongside him, and he told you no. I remember coming to you once when father was hurting mother, and you told me it would be alright.” The King takes a shuddering breath and then continues. “I remember when we left for Dragonstone and you told me, you would see me again. And then I heard you had killed father, and I could not believe that. And then I was told it was true.” The man pauses and Jaime can tell there is hurt in his expression and his voice. “Why did you do it? Why did you kill my father?”

Jaime looks at the man before him, feeling his heart shatter a little, he takes a deep breath and then replies. “He said he was going to burn the whole of the city. Let Robert be King over ashes, that is what he said. Princess Elia and her children were still in the Red Keep; I did not know what my father had ordered done. I did not know until it was too late. Your father…he asked me to…he asked me to do the deed. To kill him.”

He expects the King to snort and laugh at him, but instead the King looks genuinely interested and asks. “What would you have done had my father not asked that of you?”

Jaime is surprised by the question, he has never thought of it that way, not in the years since. “I…I…I do not know Your Grace.”

The King merely nods, at least that is how it seems in the light of the torch. The man’s voice is straight and narrow when he speaks once more. “You must be wondering what happened to the rest of your family during the taking of King’s Landing.” A pause in which Jaime nods his assent, his voice suddenly too hoarse to speak, the man nods and goes on. “Lord Tyrion died during the fighting, killed by a head wound. Your uncles fought and died bravely, killed doing their duty. As for your nephew, the boy Joffrey, he was killed running from the fight, crying for his mother.” Jaime would laugh, but he does not, instead he listens. “Your sister Cersei and her younger two children were found dead, knives through them. It seems that she ordered two of the Kingsguard to kill them should the walls be breached. Those two Kingsguard were killed for that.” Jaime closes his eyes, his heart aching and falling apart at the news, his sister is dead, and he didn’t know, he felt nothing, he had been so sure he would if something like that had happened, he wants to name the King a liar, but he knows such a thing would not go over well, and looking at the man, he knows the man is not lying.

He clears his throat and tries to keep his voice strong, though it shakes as he speaks. “What will happen to me now Your Grace, as well as the Rock?”

The King looks at him a moment as if sizing him up, before replying. “You are the last son of Tywin Lannister, the last direct heir of Tytos Lannister. You are by rights Lord of the Rock, but you are also a knight of the Kingsguard. By rights I should have your head, I took Ser Barristan’s myself, but I have also pardoned Lord Renly. So the choice is yours, do you want the Rock or do you want to remain a white knight.”  Jaime looks at the King surprised at the offer, and as if sensing his hesitation, the King says. “I will give you a day to decide. Regardless you will be at my coronation.” With that the King nods at him and walks out of the cell.


	64. Coronation

**10 th Month of 299 A.C. King’s Landing**

**King Viserys III Targaryen**

The moment he had been waiting for since he was eight years old had finally arrived. The journey had been a long and arduous one, and he had suffered many losses, and heartbreaks, but finally here he was. The Red Keep had dragon banners decorating the walls and the dragon skulls were mounted on the walls once more. The world had been righted, and it felt good, it felt really good to know that he was the reason for that. His nephew had contributed, his allies had contributed, but he was their leader, and he was the one who had guided them all through this, through it all toward their ultimate goal, their peace, and prosperity. It was a great feeling, and the gods seemed to be shining on him today, for the sun was shining brightly, and the weather was cool, not overtly hot, but nice enough. His coronation would be a grand thing that much he knew. The traitors had been rooted out, and the loyal lords and ladies were all there. Connington and Cafferen had been returned to their rightful seats and lands, Baratheon had kept his head for the nonce, though the man’s niece had died during the fighting. He was a married man now as well, and his wife was stood beside him.

He stands at the foot of the throne, his Kingsguard standing before him, their armour shining in the light. Seven men, seven of the greatest men ever to wear the white cloak. Lord Commander Ser Jonothor Darry, a true and proud man, the Sword of the Morning, Ser Arthur Dayne, the White Bat, Ser Oswell Whent, Ser Balon Swann a good man, Ser Arys Oakheart a fighter, Ser Loras Tyrell the white rose, Ser Jaime Lannister, a white lion and one he would watch for now. They were his Kingsguard and they were the best fighters in the realm. The golden dragons were there as well, spread throughout the throne room alongside the city watch. He looks at the High Septon and nods and the man begins speaking. “My lords and ladies, by grace of the Seven we are here today to see the rightful and true King of Westeros crowned King. In the light of the Seven, we pray for a good and long reign and that he may have many children, strong sons and beautiful daughters. We ask that he might forgive us for supporting a false regime.” The man pauses and looks at him and asks. “Your Grace, you know the words of the oath?”

Viserys nods, of course he knows the words of the oath. “I do Your Holiness.” He takes a breath looks at his nephew and sister and their child and smiles before continuing. “I, Viserys, of the House Targaryen, third of my name, do hereby swear before the Old Gods and the New that so long as there is life and fight in my body, I shall do all I can to uphold the laws of my kingdom and people. I will do all I can to bring justice and peace to the realm. Should there be injustice in the realm, should anyone suffer injustice I shall deal with that injustice firmly and fairly. I am the Kingdom and the Kingdom is me. I do swear it by Ice and Fire, by blood and stone. What is dead may never die, fire will be known to the enemies of my kingdom for they are also my enemies. This I swear.” He falls silent and watches as the lords and ladies of the court digest his words, a slight change to the traditional oath, but a change that was needed.

The High Septon nods at this and says. “Then, as the representative of the Seven on this earth, I name you His Highness, King Viserys, third of that name. King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. Let all those who would cross you know your wrath!” there is a hushed silence as the man places the crown of the first Jaehaerys atop his head, and then when the deed is done, a roar goes up around the throne room. Viserys keeps his face straight and blank, allowing it all to wash over him, and then he raises a hand and silence falls.

He looks around the throne room drinking in all he sees before him, and then he speaks, his voice loud and clear. “My lords and ladies, we have suffered through a terrible war. Avarice and greed took a toll and made Westeros bleed and hurt. Now we are going to repair her and build her back together, united as one people. For too long have we suffered through division, that ends now.” He takes a breath looks at the Dornish faction gathered here and then looks back to the room at large. “To that, the Prince of Dorne has agreed to become a Lord Paramount instead.” Whispers, but nothing serious. “Furthermore, after their actions during the course of the war, the Redwynes have been stripped of their right to produce ships as have the Greyjoys. They cannot do so without the crown’s permission.” Another whisper, this one slightly more serious, but he goes on. “And finally, the Lord of Casterly Rock shall be Tyrek Lannister, a boy who knows his duty.” The boy comes forward and bows, and then disappears back into the crowd. Viserys looks around and then clears his throat once more. “Now let us celebrate peace. The realm shall heal, and tonight we begin that process by feasting and drinking.” A cheer goes out at that, but then it falls silent when he looks at his wife, Lady Margaery looking resplendent in his house colours, he kisses her hand and leads up the stairs to her throne, and then he stands before the Iron Throne, he stares at it a moment as the court waits with baited breath. He runs his hands over the swords, and then turns raises a hand, closes it into a fist, brings it to his chest and says. “On this I swear.” And then he sits down, and the crowd roars.  

The shout of “Long Live the King!” goes up, and as it does, he thinks of his mother, and he knows that wherever she is, she is smiling with pride. For the first time in a long time, Viserys Targaryen smiles.

 


End file.
